Your Death is My Life
by ThomE.Gemcity-06
Summary: (a VAMPIRE fic). d'Artagnan becomes Milady's pet and helps her in her revenge against Athos with the promise of getting turned in the aftermath. But it appears where vampires and hunters are concerned, things aren't as simple. INCLUDES: d'Artagnan/Milady, chapter warnings are inside. Rated T for now...
1. Chapter 1

**a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and general vampire concerns.**

 **Note: So... a Vampire-fic, don't flay me on this either. I couldn't help it. :)**

 **Summary:** _d'Artagnan becomes Milady's pet and helps her in her revenge against Athos with the promise of getting turned in the aftermath. But it appears where vampires and hunters are concerned, things aren't as simple._

 **Chapter includes (warning/spoilers): [** Milady/d'Artagnan]; vampire/human relations, sexual context, blood consumption.

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Your Death is My Life**  
 _Chapter 1:_ —

He laid back against the slanted roof, his knees raised and planted feet keeping him from sliding down the sharp angle. He watched as the sun finally fell to sleep below the horizon of dead, gnarled trees, bare of leaves or flowers, indications of beauty and thriving life. The last colours of the ball of light faded and switched to darker, drabber swaths of colours. Blacks, greys, dark violets.

He wondered how many more sunsets he'd be allowed to witness, or the sunrises that he favoured. The warmth that filled even this dead stock of woods was a breathtaking experience. The colours weren't something that could be replicated, no matter how many sloppy attempts his Mistress had encouraged in him.

He felt it as she started to awaken, that string that bound them, hooked into his abdomen. It tugged, and he raised his legs, effectively releasing his anchor and he started his fast decent. The rough shingles scraping through his shirtsleeves didn't bother him. And then the roof ended, and he was shot into the air.

He contorted his body, twisting and flipping through the air for the fast fall from the highest part of the old house, the tower, to the fast coming ground, a light laugh on his lips. As graceful and flexible as he was as a regular human, with the blood of his Mistress in his veins, his current act was extraordinarily so. He bent his knees, bracing for impact. It jarred his knees, the momentum carried him into a shoulder roll and he popped harmlessly back onto his feet. A jump like that would have killed a normal person at most, or broke their legs at the lest.

He gave a flourishing bow to the none existent applause and audience, and turned his back to the contorted, weathered trees and towards the house. It appeared old and desolate, condemned, but when he crested the threshold, the inside was a completely different manner. The pallet was made from a deep red. Rugs covered the bare floorboards. All the windows were boarded up tightly, and thick, dark curtains hid any seeping daylight and the view from sight. Vampires were night creatures, the sunlight could kill them if they weren't careful. The furniture was older, but still comfortable and laid in their precise places.

He toed off his boots at the door.

The place was impersonal. It didn't hold a family-feel, there were no portraits on the walls, what pictures there were, were of flowers—or more precisely: forget-me-nots. He guessed that it was a favouritism from when she was human.

He stopped briefly by the mantelpiece and struck a match, lighting the wick of the candles, one by one. Though his sight was keener with her blood, he still had his limitations. The soft flame from the lit candles around the room cast a warm aura that didn't exist in the place. The fireplace added a warmth that her body couldn't feel, that only human blood, his blood, could foster.

His Mistress or Milady de Winter as he knew her, had a pickier taste when she was allowed. It was his job to go into the city and get her a donor when she decided not to feed from him. It was more difficult, of course, to an unwilling donor, especially one of high quality that might get noticed if they went missing suddenly—but what she asked for, she received.

He took a single lit candle from the candelabrum and headed for the stair. Her lair—bedroom—was upstairs. The house didn't hold a basement. This area, in the wet season, was prone to flooding. It was a 'wet woods', so the house was built on a platform of sorts.

Her room was especially crafted, cut into two sections. One portion was closed near completely without a window and a reinforced door for entry; it was essentially a coffin without actually being a literal one. (It could only be secured from the inside). It held the enclosed bed that she slept on during the daylight hours. The other section of the room, was her 'night bed', wardrobe, desk, vanity, settee.

The old steps creaked lightly under his weight. She'd have heard it, but with her hearing, she would have already heard him coming down form the roof. He crested the top landing of the stairs and walked down the hall. He had his own room, of course, but it was entirely unelaborated. A bed to sleep on, a chest for his clothes, and a small desk.

He opened the door to her room, and in the faint light of the candle, he could see her on the 'night bed' already waiting for him like she did every night. He stepped in and closed the door, putting the gently melting candle in the empty holder on the desk by the door. Though vampirism enhanced beauty, she was that even before.

After the slumber of the day, she would wake up parched and hungry. He made his way over to the bed, pulling his shirtsleeves overhead and crawled into the plush bed next to her.

"You were playing outside again," she murmured, her voice smoky. Her long, polished fingernail trail up his arm and over the thin flesh at his neck, scraping the flesh lightly. He shivered at the attention, his heart pace picking up.

"I like to watch the sun set."

"Mmm." She breathed, something that her body didn't need to do now, but was done out of habit. "Eager for me to wake, are we?" Her irises were a deep red of hunger. As soon as she fed, they would fade back to the hue they were when she was a human.

"Can you blame me?" he answered.

In response, she pushed his head back, perhaps father than strictly necessary. The skin pulled taut, she could see every contour of his throat, his Adam's apple clearly as he swallowed, his windpipe (something she could crush with just a simple push of her thumb if she so wished). She parted her lush red lips and sharp white fangs were revealed.

She leaned over the young man, and the razor sharp edges of her fangs dragged across the delicate flesh over the artery in his neck. She could feel his reaction, in his body, the pulse of his heart, his quickening blood. Though she could be the fearful creature that she was, that wasn't what he was feeling at the moment. But instead of biting there, she trailed her mouth downward.

His breath hitched as her chin grazed his nipple, and then felt a sharp pain as her fangs pierced the flesh above. What initial pain there always was, quickly vanished as his blood flowed and she started to drink.

Sometimes, when she was in a mood, she made the feedings painful. Other times, it lead to sexual completion. He was as good a lover as any she had. He was handsome, fit, young. He knew what she liked. He tasted delicious; a mixture of earth tones, light. She didn't have much to complain for.

"Milady.' He was breathing heavily by the time that she finally pulled back. The punctures automatically healing from her saliva. It took a control that he didn't know he had, not to rut against her like a dirty dog as her hands had wandered during her feeding. If she had wanted it to end in sex, he would have known it.

There was silence between them as they laid next to each other. Her, dealing with the satisfaction of a good feeding, her eyes fading from tinted red to jaded green of her human life. And him, light-headed and aroused.

Finally, she pricked the pad of her finger with the sharp point of her fang, and a ruby red bead swelled on the fingerprint. d'Artagnan's eyes were transfixed on it as he laid back. He parted his lips and opened his mouth awaiting as her hand hovered above him. She smirked at his eagerness for her blood. And she let two drops fall. d'Artagnan inhaled as the cold blood hit his warm tongue, and he swallowed

His eyes fluttered in response as he felt the immediate effects of the blood, as little as he was given. Blood, fresh and directly from the source could be a potent thing—especially if one was given it on a regular basis. It never lost the high he felt each time, the new energy coursing through his blood, the strength hardening his muscles, how any cobwebs of the day cleared from his brain, tiredness vanished. And not to forget the arousal.

It took him a moment to react as more drops pattered against his lips, and his tongue quickly swept them up.

Panting a little, trying to ignore the hardness in his trousers, he looked over at her. "Is something happening? You gave me more blood than usual."

She smirked. "We're going on a little hunt, my pet." She never called him by his name. "A certain Spaniard that my husband has attachments to."

d'Artagnan's interest piqued at that. The last encounter that she had with her husband had nearly killed her and had left her weak, vulnerable. It was near then that she'd found himself at such a time in his life; broken and alone—and thus their relationship had formed from mutual benefits. He became her pet, fed her and did all the things that she was unable to now that she was a vampire. And she made him stronger than he was, helped him gain revenge on the men who had murdered his father and mother.

As soon as her husband was finally dead, she had sworn to change him. It had never been his life-goal to become a vampire. Gascony was his home and he had intended to stay there. Find a sweet girl and marry her, having a clutch of kids. He wanted them to have siblings like he never did, like his parents never got the chance to. He work on the farm with his father, who would then retire at a very old age while he took things over. But over recently, his perspective on life had changed, his purpose.

Hunters had ruined his life, he only thought it just that he ruin theirs by teaming up with the very thing that they worked to kill.

[tbc]

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **End Note:** _I just went through the Gauntlet with my zombie fic and barely came out alive—and apparently, a little crazy as well. I'm taking up the vampire Stake now. Please, tell me what you think. I have taped my fingers crossed. :)_

 _y_


	2. Chapter 2

**a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and general vampire concerns.**

 **Chapter includes (warning/spoilers):** [Mistress/pet]: Punishment/violence, d'Artagnan!whump, Aramis!whump.

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Your Death is My Life**  
 _Chapter 2:_ —

d'Artagnan sat perched on the second-floor balcony across from the Rowboat, a house of night that the Spaniard Musketeer was known to frequent, hidden in the shadow cast by the lit torches that lined the main street below. Paris was an entirely different place, that transformed from one dimension to another; day and night.

The day belonged to the humans. It was usually the only time they could walk the street without complete fear—at least from vampires. Human-on-human violence was still a very common occurrence. It was of the most rarest things to see a vampire in the day.

Sunlight was one of the ultimate weapons against a vampire, but good luck getting one into the day. A vampire _could_ survive in the sun, for a few hours at least, if they gorged on blood. The sunlight would slowly and surely weaken them, evaporating the consumed blood that nudged through their veins. It came out like light wisps of smoke, and when that started to happen—the vampire was one step away from bursting into flames and being incinerated into ash. Mostly all didn't even bother to risk it for a few hours of sunlight that wouldn warm their skin in a way that was not preferred.

Vampires were out and well-known, and while they weren't openly embraced, they weren't outwardly shunned. There were people who thought that they shouldn't be allowed the same rights as humans, because they were no longer that, they were the undead. The Church openly crucified them. Even as they were vampires in the Ranks of the Red Guards—the Musketeers abstained from it. Their Ranks were human. They were classified as hunters, it was their express duty by the King to be active when a vampire was involved.

Being in Paris, day or night, was always a big change from the solitude of Milady's residence. The simple pressure of bodies had at first been overwhelming to d'Artagnan, especially when he first started on her blood. It took a minute to adjust to his enhanced senses—but they would be nothing like they were now, even on her blood, once she changed him.

His eyes tracked each passing person, able to tell whether they were a human or vampire, it was especially easy as some eyes found his hidden form—he was just glad when none tried to make a move on him. Though, as he was already a vampire's pet, something they could scent, they wouldn't dare unless they wanted some form of trouble.

He'd been there for hours, until finally, the tavern door opened, making the drunken clamour from inside pour even louder into the night's street, and a tall man with a hat stepped out. Even if he didn't see the pauldron on the man's shoulder as he turned and started off down the street, his step just off enough for d'Artagnan to see that was somewhat inebriated, the young man would have recognized him anyways.

Though this was the first move Milady was making against her husband, Athos, since d'Artagnan had been with her, she made sure he knew exactly what he was about when it involved the Musketeers. He knew she had connections when she told him that it wasn't the Red Guards that he needed to worry about. Athos was her husband, and his two main companions and hunting partners, were two men named Aramis and Porthos. These men were like brothers, and any blow to one was a blow to them all.

d'Artagnan stood up on the balcony railing, his eyes still tracking Aramis down the street as he effortlessly pulled himself onto the roof of the balcony and paced the Musketeer from the roofs. It wasn't until several blocks later, when d'Artagnan confirmed that the man was alone, did he pull ahead and climb stealthy down to street level in a dark alley.

d'Artagnan hid at the mouth of the alley, in stillness and paused breath, ready to act. The second that light blue brimmed hat met his eye line, d'Artagnan reached out. He grabbed hold of the many belts and straps that crossed over the man's chest and jerked him around into the darkness of the alley, his hat flying from his head and dropping into the street. d'Artagnan spun in a circle, throwing the man against the wall with a hard thud.

Even in his lightly drunken state, Aramis had felt the eerie gaze following him, so when he was suddenly snatched and thrown into the wall with inhuman strength, his body reacted accordingly. Unable to see in much in the dimness of the alley, he could still feel the other body against him, tensing for a second move—he snapped his head forward before that could happen.

The cry of surprise was audible, as was the crunch of broken cartilage. The young man, whoever he was, backed off for a single moment before jumping back into the fray with a growl. Both Musketeer and pet had weapons, but it had become a match of wrestling.

They grappled for dominance over the other, though d'Artagnan clearly had the advantage of vampire blood, Aramis was a hunter and had experience with dealings of stronger opponents. They crashed into a stack of crates against the wall with an exchange of close-quarters blow. Aramis on top, but d'Artagnan soon remedied that with a grasp of his shoulders and a boot to his gut, levering and throwing him back overhead. Aramis tumbled painfully into the sharp edges of the crates, and twisted around, trying to orientate himself in the mess quickly. d'Artagnan scrambled obliviously over the crates, easily able to discern Aramis in the mess and dark with his amplified gaze.

He shoved the thicker man into the ground and ignored the man's pummelling fists. d'Artagnan wrapped his arms around the man's neck, squeezing, cutting off his air supply. Milady wanted him subdued and then be called for.

Aramis wheezed, but he didn't waste time in trying to pry his arms off, and instead scrambled to reach up for d'Artagnan's face (his main _gauche_ was trapped beneath him, his sword tangled in their legs, his pistol jammed in his belt), his own view obscured by d'Artagnan's chest as the Gascon came close to crushing his windpipe. Aramis yanked the long locks of hair, ripping out a chunk. He clawed at d'Artagnan's face and eyes, but the boy merely ignored him and the sparked pain and craned his neck to be from reach. Aramis attempts did nothing to dislodge him, he was fading, the man could tell by the sparks flashing in his eyes, the burn of his lungs.

"Aramis!" the shout was a welcomed relief from the mouth of the alley and Aramis' savoir.

d'Artagnan cursed vehemently at the appearance of both Athos and Porthos. He wouldn't be able to bring Aramis to Milady now, but the least that he could do was deal another hard blow and end the Spaniard's life.

Aramis could feel the tensing of the young man above him, and the way he shifted his grip around his neck, the Musketeer knew a killing pose when he felt one. He let out a strangled, urgent cry.

"Oi! Get the 'ell away from 'im!" the accompany shot barely missed d'Artagnan's head and with a shout the Gascon flung himself off of Aramis and backwards, deeper into the alley and the shadows. A second shot followed him as he leapt onto the barrels at the back of the alley and scrambled up the wall to the same roof he'd come down from.

d'Artagnan didn't stick around and leapt from roof to roof without much effort form the continuous buildings. He cursed again. If Milady had just let him kill the Spaniard outright... but she had too many elaborate schemes. Now the Inseparables as they were known, would be on their guard, and attacking would be all that much harder.

* * *

"Aramis." Athos called as he and Porthos ran into the alley after the flight of the attacker, the latter holding Aramis' hat.

Aramis coughed and there was quite a bit of crashing and cursing as he righted himself amid the crashed and broken crates. Adrenaline still coursed through him, his limbs shaking as he leaned a hand against the wall for support.

"You alright?" Porthos demanded, a strong hand gripping his shoulder.

Aramis nodded. "Yeah." He croaked and cleared his throat, rubbing the abused flesh. "Just a smattering of colour to go along with my tan. What do you think?" he joked

Porthos managed a smiled. "Try again next time." The Spaniard stuck his tongue out in response. The big man held out his friend's hat. "Found this."

"Mm." He combed bruised knuckles through his unruly hair and took the hat, pressing it into proper place. "Wondering where that got to."

"You should be grateful that you lost it," Athos told him gravely, "Otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation right now."

"That's for the save," Aramis nodded. "If you hadn't fired those shots..." it was a thought that didn't deserve completion.

"So, what the 'ell 'appened?" Porthos asked.

"Don't know." Aramis shook his head. "I'd left the Rowboat. Felt like I was being watched. Then, they just grabbed me."

"Did you get a good look at whoever attacked you?" Athos questioned.

Aramis shook his head again, rubbing at any one blossoming bruise. "No. Just that it was a man—and he was definitely on vampire juice. He would of had me if you guys hadn't come alone when you had. He wouldn't have been able to take all three of us, and that was what scared him off."

"Was it just random, or planned?" Athos wondered.

"It was probably just some stupid junkie out of 'is mind." Porthos scoffed, shaking his head at the idea. "No vampire would be stupid enough to attack a Musketeer."

"All I know, is that he was trying to subdue me in the start. And then when you guys called my name, he switched his plan to kill." Aramis shuddered at how exactly close a call it had been.

"That definitely doesn't sound random to me." Athos nodded grimly. "Until we can figure out what's going on—I'm enacting the buddy-law."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Porthos couldn't help the snort, nor Aramis the snickered, it just sounded so ridiculous coming from Athos' deadpan persona.

Athos sighed, but allowed their humour for the moment. He'd see just how entertaining the Spaniard thought it in the morning when his bruises and aches came into full affect as the adrenaline ran its full course.

If it was a blood junkie that attacked Aramis, with the intent to subdue and then kill, it stood to reason that this was an attempt from a vampire with a clear grudge, either against Aramis himself, or the Musketeers in general. Either one, he found concerning. This was something that Captain Treville would need to hear about, even if it was only a one off—because it could easily turn into something more bigger and dangerous.

* * *

Milady was furious when d'Artagnan arrived back at the house, and she wasn't afraid to show it. His heart rate spiked with fear and pain as she grabbed him and threw him across the already trashed room. He barely had a chance to sink into the slump on the floor before she was in front of him with inhuman speed, picking him up by the hair. He groaned, but it turned into a shaper cry as she spiked him in the stomach with a edged palm, her hand disappearing into his abdomen. Her hand wrenched and twisted in his guts, and he screamed in pain. It was like a minute of music in her ears.

She gave a hiss of rage, she dropped his convulsing form to the floor and left him there, blood pulsing from the tear in his body. He moaned, curling in on himself, trying to contain all of his insides. The only reason why he was alive right now, was because of the extra drops Milady had given him of her blood earlier, but it wasn't enough to _heal_ such an extensive wound. Milady would have to give him more blood for that.

He spent several agonizing hours on the floor, curled up against the wall, surrounded in a pool of his own blood, his insides not so inside anymore. Until finally, blessedly, as the sun was peeking over the horizon, she came back to the house and crouched beside him. Her beautiful face was marred with a scowl as she looked down at his pitiful form. She almost would have left him there to die, but she didn't want to go through all the work of training a new monkey, nor cleaning up this mess.

She bite into her wrist with her fangs, before holding it out to him.

He sucked desperately on her wrist, his own blood coating his lips. Milady thumped his head back against the floor and he released her wrist, gasping. Without further prompting, the black and bloody hole in his stomach knitted itself seamlessly back together with no lasting scar (his broken nose as well). He panted in relief as he slowly pushed himself into a sitting position against the wall.

She looked at him in distaste. "Clean this up before it stains." And she flitted from the room, up the stairs, and to her sleep.

d'Artagnan sighed and looked at all the blood with a grimace, not to mention the broken furniture that he knew she expected him to right as well.

Hours later, laying on the low, front deck roof under the high afternoon sun, he could still feel the phantom pain in his abdomen. It wasn't the first time she'd punished him like that, but considering this mess-up concerned her husband—it was especially harsh. But he couldn't understand why she hadn't just let him kill Aramis outright.

The persistent growl of his stomach forced him from the warm and friendly rays of the sun, and to the kitchen where he ate a simple cutting of hard bread and salted meat. After which, he went upstairs to his room and slept the rest of the sun away.

The pull of her awareness awoke him, and feeling ragged and wary, he dragged himself from bed and to her rooms. At the door, he straightened, before opening the it to complete darkness.

Before he could take another breath, before he could even step into the room—she was there. Without a sound, without a breath, she flitted in front of him. Before he could even yelp, she grabbed a handful of his hair, tore his head back—her sharp fangs tore into his delicate neck, the flesh sliced through like water.

He couldn't stop the whimper because it _hurt_.

He couldn't breath, he was drowning in his own blood. He'd never felt anything like it. She tore into his throat, tore it ragged he was sure. She was going to kill him. Just as the thought went through him, she released his hair and throat and he fell to the floor, half in her room, half out, wheezing.

He reached up and frantically felt his throat. It was slick with blood, and felt tender—but was whole. Her saliva healed the bite wound. Gripping the doorjamb, he pulled himself to his feet and stepped slowly into the dark room.

It had been a savage feeding, not the first, but by far the most scary. She was still angry with him, pissed, furious—but he didn't need to have his throat near torn out to know that.

With the remaining blood from the previous day, he could make his Mistress out; seated at the vanity, and cleaning her face of his blood. He said nothing, and waited.

"You're going to infiltrate the Musketeers." She said finally, and that was the last thing he expected to hear.

Any fear from the previous encounter not minutes ago was forgotten in the following incredulousness of that statement. "What do you mean? Are you insane?!" he gaped at her and his previous anger and frustration returned. "Why didn't you just let me kill him?!" he blurted. "He could be dead right now, and Athos would be suffering the loss of his blood brother!"

Milady didn't hold back, and when she struck him, it was with the full-force of her fist. d'Artagnan flew off his feet, his cry of pain cut off as he slammed against the wall. He dropped to the floor with a grunt, and groaned lightly in pain as he pushed himself upright, his palm cupping his shattered cheek.

He would heal—slowly—she didn't seem to be forthcoming with the blood. This was one of the downsides of their relationship. She was the vampire, she held all the power. She could kill him, or let him live. She definitely wouldn't let him go, not even with a glamour to forget. She held the power to change him, not the other way around.

"Athos is my husband, and I determine his fate!" she snapped, her eyes flashing furiously. A moment later, her calm mask slipped back into place and the monster was gone. "Now... were you _seen_ in your failure, pet?"

d'Artagnan took a shuddering breath and shook his head. "No, Mistress. It was too dark. His sight was obscured. And the others were too far away."

"Good." She nodded and dismissed him with a flick of her fingers. She had said all that she wanted to him at the moment, and he could just be grateful that she let him keep his life after his blunder in the alley.

d'Artagnan quickly backed out, shutting the door. He went downstairs and to the bathing room. He poured water into the brass tub, but didn't bother to boil it. He stripped off his remaining clothes, and stepped into the cold water. Haltingly, he sunk into it. Emerged, he sat motionless, the water gently lapping at his broken cheek, helping to numb the pain…

What exactly had he gotten himself into?

[tbc]

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M ****eht**

 **y**


	3. Chapter 3

**a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and general vampire concerns.**

 **Note: Glad for the interest, thanks for the reviews, here's the next chapter!**

 **Chapter includes (warning/spoilers):** glamour induced beating, blood consumption,

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Your Death is My Life**  
 _Chapter 3:_ —

He wanted to cry. He felt that heave in his chest. The last time he had cried so wretchedly was when his parents had been killed. But this wasn't a sob of the heart, it was a cry of pain. He couldn't remember the last time he hurt so bad, the sharp shooting pain. He didn't have her blood to fall back on, to take the pain away, to heal him right. He didn't have a drop in his blood, not for a week now.

He was back to his original state, back to who he was before he met her. Weak, vulnerable, mortal. If this was what it felt like to be human, d'Artagnan didn't want it. If he needed a petty reason to turn vampire, it was so he didn't have to _hurt_. _He_ would be the one in control, not the other way around.

Milady had done most of the work herself, gleefully, without reserve, and let the party of four glamoured blood peddling henchmen work on him for authenticity.

He attempted to fight back, but in his state of vampire blood withdrawal, he'd been overwhelmed even faster than his already-there injuries. No one tried to help, no one cared—but he hoped _they_ would, otherwise, he was going to die.

* * *

It had been several weeks since Aramis had been grabbed and beaten in the alley—and there hadn't been a similar attempt on any of the Inseparables since. Of course, Treville still sent them on assignments or they were sent to take care of illegal acts of vampirism. But whether the lack of another attack should make him relax or wary, Athos was still trying to decide.

It was an hour into sunset, and the three of them were on patrol as per scheduled on the roster. It was always good for there to be a presence of Musketeers during the hours of the moon, it warned vampires against attacking civilians, or snatching them up.

Unfortunately, it wasn't an unusual thing for people to be reported missing, and then the next day, their bodies turn up in the Thames, drained of blood, or they just never turn up. It was rare, for people of the higher class to vanish in the night as well, but it wasn't unheard of. It was in the lower part of town, a district called the Court of Miracles, where the seedier vampire business were located.

Usually, it was illegal dealings. Like in vampire blood, or human blood to vampire clientele. There were places, den's they were called—illicit and immoral activity between vampire and human, sometimes willing and sometimes not. Even if the Musketeers managed to debase one of these places, another would just crop up not a week later.

Their presence at such at place, warranted them danger that shouldn't be faced alone, especially at night. That was why, when they had to enter the Red Blood District as it was sometimes referred, the pauldrons that marked them as Musketeers and hunters, were disguised or hidden.

It wasn't such a night to make a circuit of the Court, but they made their presence known, passing by one of the entrances to the district. They were about to move on when they heard a sharp cry of pain, a human cry, that made them pause. They stared down the dark congealed street that led to violent-er things, and a moment later, there was a blur of moment as body tumbled into the street. It was just a boy, and he struggled to get his hands and knees beneath him, before, like a swarm, four men laid into him, laughing and cursing at the boy.

Athos was still trying to decide whether it was worth interfering with, the danger for what was most likely just a indebted customer, when Porthos took the matter out of his hands.

"Oi! What do you think you're doin'?" Porthos shouted, and d'Artagnan vaguely registered that it wasn't unlike his voice when it was Aramis in this position.

"Shit!" one of them cursed, looking up at the shout and seeing Porthos storming towards them, the other two scrabbling after close behind. "Musketeers! Let's get outta here!"

The others took notice of the shout and then them, and they couldn't seem to run fast enough, now faced with men who could defend themselves. Porthos kept on a few feet after the boy, but the attackers had already disappeared down the street, and it was too dangerous to pursue them.

"Porthos!" Athos called him back.

"Well?" Porthos asked Aramis, who had knelt down beside the boy.

Aramis gave a helpless shake of his head. "It looks pretty bad. I don't think he's going to last too long. Just by his breathing, how weak and watery it sounds... I'd say one of the broken ribs that he's bound to have after a beating like that, has punctured his lung and he's slowly drowning in his own blood."

"There's nothing you can do?" Athos questioned at the grim news.

Aramis was quiet for a moment before he looked up to the blue-eyed Musketeer. "With vampire blood, maybe—if he gets it fast enough."

"We can't just let 'im die, can we?" Porthos spoke when Athos did not. "If we're just goin' to let 'im die anyway, then why didn't we just let those gnats finish the job?"

"M... My sister..." d'Artagnan managed to get out weakly, pleadingly, before his eyes rolled up in his head.

Athos closed his eyes deeply and sighed. "Alright," he allowed. "The garrison is closer, so you and Porthos get him there. And I'll get the _Madame._ "

Athos left them, and Porthos and Aramis gathered the broken d'Artagnan between them, who moaned in pain, even in his unconscious state. The trek back to the garrison was not a comfortable one, but no matter the pained sounds coming from d'Artagnan, they daren't have stopped. And when the Gascon ceased to make any more noise, Aramis feared the worst. But they kept on and Aramis was dubious of the boy's living by the time they arrived at the garrison and put the him in the sick rooms.

But it was there, he could feel it, the thinnest of threads—now, they could only hope that Athos' and the _Madame's_ coming was quick.

The _Madame_ was a vampire that helped out the Musketeers from time to time. She was a young woman called Constance Bonacieux. Her turn was forced and unwanted. Her husband, a weasel of a man, in deep with some vampires in the Red Blood District, had handed her over as 'payment'. The Inseparables had moved towards her rescue, but they had been too slow. The vampires had already turned her. Constance was now a vampire, fully functioning, non psychopathic consumer of blood. She feed strictly from **willing** donors, leant her blood to the Musketeers as well as her strength and intelligence when needed.

Athos moved fast, or more Constance's vampire speed made up for his human pace and it was shortly after Aramis had attempted to make d'Artagnan's broken body more comfortable, that the beautiful young vampire arrived.

" _Madame,_ " Aramis stood at her arrival. "Thanks for coming so fast."

She smiled softly, but her blue eyes were trained on the boy in the bed. "What's his name?" she asked, stepping closer. d'Artagnan was near twenty-years of age, but most mistook him for a teenager. Constance knew a man when she saw one.

"Don't know." Porthos shook his head. "Chased off some dealers before they could kill 'im."

She tsked gently, her hand touching d'Artagnan's swollen and bloody face lightly. d'Artagnan moaned lightly, his eyes briefly flicking open to glimpse her face, even as he leaned into her cool touch upon his burning skin. Constance nodded, as if silently confirming something with herself, before she stood and turned to the table at the side. She took a short dagger from the folds of her dress and drew the sharp blade across the pale skin at the inside of her wrist. The dark blood welled immediately, and she turned her wrist over the cup there, filling it with the ruby liquid that would be d'Artagnan's lifeline. After a moment, the cup about half full, she pinched the cut closed with her fingertips and the flesh sealed itself, not leaving a mark.

She cleaned the blood from her wrist with a cloth from the table as she spoke, "He is very weak, close to death. My blood may not even help him." She sat on the edge of the bed and carefully petted his hair, cupping the back of his neck. d'Artagnan whimpered and Constance hushed him softly. "Drink," and she held the cup to his cut and swollen lips.

She could smell it on his blood, he was no stranger to vampire blood. But it was faint, and she knew that he hadn't had a taste in a while. If he had, he might have been able to defend himself better against those men, even with the unfavourable numbers.

As the cool liquid passed over his lips, his body reacted instinctively and he drank.

Athos finally arrived, but he seemed in no rush, nor as if he'd been running. "Well?" he asked, standing beside Aramis and Porthos.

"She's just giving him the blood now." Aramis answered.

Constance took the cup away, but her other hand staid its place at his nape and her nimble fingers gently massaged the base of his skull. Vampire blood could work miracles. It could bring people back from the brink. But even something so special needed time. Though noticeably instant, his lips healed first with the touch of her blood.

"Some warm water," she requested, and Porthos went to the hearth on the other side of the beds where a fire was already lit and a pot of water hung over the flame. He scooped some into a basin and brought the steaming water back, setting the bowl on the table next to the vampire.

Constance exchanged the cup for a cloth, which she wetted and turned back to d'Artagnan. She gently cleaned his face, neck, and chest through the opening of his torn and bloody shirt, and his hands. By the time she was finished in her ministrations, his outward appearance was marginally better and he was looking more human.

"Is there nothing else?" she asked, returning the soiled cloth to the now cool water and standing. She smoothed her skirts and turned to the three men.

"No." Athos shook his head. "You've done enough already. Thank you, Constance."

Constance nodded, and gave one last glance at the young man. "Keep an eye on him," she told Athos as she passed him for the door. "I have a feeling about him."

"A good feeling, or bad?" he wondered.

She paused, sending a smile over her shoulder from the doorway. "I suppose it depends on your actions, and his."

"I see why you'd think commenting such a thing would be any help whatsoever." Athos deadpanned.

She just winked at him before she left.

Athos sighed and turned back to his to brothers. He didn't need her fluid comment to watch the boy in order to pursue the act. They knew nothing of the him as of yet. He'd barely knew Constance when she was a human, but she seemed to have come into herself beautifully as a vampire. Her confidence and strength blooming from being out from under her oppressive and scummy husband.

"Well?"

" _Madame's_ blood already seemed to be working," Aramis reported, pulling the thin blanket over the shivering body on the bed. "On the surface at least. We'll have to wait and see if he wakes."

Athos surveyed d'Artagnan and nodded at that assessment. Now that Constance had cleared away the dirt and blood, he could already see how less worse his wounds were.

"So, what took you so long?" Porthos mused into the silence. "Gettin' slow in your old age, eh?"

Athos stared back at the bigger man, a single brow twitching in response. A grin broke across Porthos' broad mouth.

"You get first watch over him," Athos said. "You're the one that interfered and saved his life."

Porthos furrowed his brows at the older man's wording. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Only time will tell," was his parting response before he left the two Musketeers and rescue.

"That was a loaded statement." He muttered. He looked over to the Spaniard. "What d'you think that was 'bout?"

"Coming from Athos...?" Aramis gave a dubious shrug. He started for the door.

"Your leavin' too?" Porthos wasn't above pouting. Sure, it was him who had ultimately stepped in and saved the lad, but still.

Aramis rolled his eyes. "Don't worry, I'm coming back. Perhaps I'll be bearing gift—cards... wine... food..."

Porthos brightened up at the mention of what was a few amongst his most favourite things. He wasn't a complex man after all. He didn't need intricate things to sate him, he was a simple, free man. He had learned to take pleasure where he could from his tender age of hardships.

Aramis chuckled as he left, shaking his head lightly. If Porthos hadn't shouted and charged forth, Aramis certainly would have. Neither could have just stood by and let d'Artagnan get beaten to death.

* * *

It was several days of d'Artagnan filtering in and out of consciousness, as Constance's blood coursed through his own, fresh and vibrant. True to her word, the vampire returned night's later to check on his progress and gave the healing Gascon some more blood, though certainly much less than the first dose.

It was during this visit that he had stayed conscious the longest, pulled forward at her entrance—already able to sense her after a single feeding, unlike the constant consumption over a week that it had taken to have that same connection with Milady.

Milady's beauty could not compare to Constance's. The red-haired vampire just had about her a natural aura that only Milady could attempt to replicate. She was kind, but it didn't make her weak. She was firm, but had humour about her. She was a magnificent creature, and he fell for her as soon as he first saw her over him.

But it didn't matter, that meant nothing to him, for him.

It was hard for him to concentrate on her, or anything really, after she gave him that second taste of her blood. After being off of Milady's cold turkey and then shoved through the pounder, he could hardly care to realize that he was a blood junkie. He'd never really thought himself that. He was Milady's pet, not some pathetic creature that sold himself or his personal property to get a few drops. Theirs was an even exchange, his blood for hers and sex mostly in-between. He didn't care for the hypocrisy of it. He needed the blood. He needed to be alert and aware in this unknown environment that Milady had pushed him into.

* * *

When d'Artagnan awoke next, he was completely healed and aware. Actually, he'd been awake and aware before making that fact known. With Constance's blood in him, he could easily hear their hushed voices at the other end of the long sick room, unaware. It gave him time to adjust himself, accumulate to his situation now. As soon as he opened his eyes, it was their death or his.

d'Artagnan made a little show of it. Moaning lightly, eyes fluttering open, taking in the unfamiliar settings in confusion. Seeing the three strange men standing around him... Startled, he scrambled back against the headboard. He'd found himself to be quite the pretender since being around Milady.

"W-who are you? Where a-am I?" he demanded.

"Easy, easy." Aramis held up his hand placating. "You're in no danger now."

When d'Artagnan looked ready to bolt, eyes frantically searching for an exit plan, not at all eased by Aramis' none-threatening posture and words, Porthos, the most intimidating in appearance, spoke in a soft, but pointed rumble that stilled the Gascon. Even unconsciously, that deep brogue was of some comfort. In truth, d'Artagnan couldn't really remember much about what happened in the Court as the pain surmounted his thoughts; but even for the daze, he remember the deep bellow that had interceded upon his behalf.

"You were gettin' beat on in the Court, lad. Whatever you did, you pissed off those guys—"

d'Artagnan's eyes widened and he jolted from to bed to his feet with a cry. "My sister!" but all too soon his knees collapsed under him and the three men watched frozen as his handsome and healed face crumpled. "Anna! She—! They... she's dead because of them!"

All he had to do was substitute hunter with vampire and blood dealers, and parents with an older sister—and he had a solid past to rely upon.

Athos was cold and reserved; Aramis was soft-hearted and emotional; Porthos was jovial and the bear protector. But in this short period, they all seemed to sense d'Artagnan was more comfortable of Porthos, so it was the big man that took the reins of the situation.

He approached d'Artagnan slowly, and crouched next to him, with an arm's-length of distance between them so he wouldn't feel crowded or pressured.

It didn't take a genius to see a clear picture into d'Artagnan's past with just that simple, cut sentence. That was the fate of most in the Court. They were poor and starving or hooked on vampire blood; so they became blood donors or prostitutes or pets. There wasn't very much choice when one live in the Red Blood District.

"I'm sorry 'bout your sister." He said with sincerity. "I've lived in the Court, I know what it can be like. You—your sister—you were jus' tryin' to survive. Sometimes, that place just eats people, no matter 'ow hard they fight or 'ow strong they are. There's nothin' we can do for your sister... but you're 'ere now—safe. And I'm sure that's all she ever wanted for you."

There was a harshness of reality to his words, but also a sore comfort. The words touched him, the true feeling, even from a fabricated life—but Porthos didn't know that. d'Artagnan wondered if only for a brief instant, if these men had found him after his parents instead of Milady…

"I'm Porthos..." he finally introduced himself as he seemed to sense that his words had comforted the young man in some way. "That's Aramis and that's Athos."

d'Artagnan gave a sniff. "C-Charles." He told them. Charles was dead. He died when his parents were killed. He didn't exist anymore. The person d'Artagnan was to play, wasn't real either. A hoax, a fabrication. Soon, he would vanish, just as Charles before did.

And Porthos reached out and gently squeezed his narrow and shaking shoulder...

The only time he really touched other people was when he brought food back to the house for Milady when she felt like dinning on something other than himself. Or the rare occasion that his Mistress invited him to bed with her and another—be it a human donor, or the very, insanely rare, another vampire. The last he had had intimate contact with someone, was when he tried to kidnap and them kill Aramis.

And now, here they were—Aramis' best friend was comforting his attempted-murderer and a compatriot of Athos' revengeful vampire ex-wife. They really ought to have been more suspicious than they were—this was just too easy!

[tbc]

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

y


	4. Chapter 4

**a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and general vampire concerns.**

 **Note:**

 **Chapter includes (warning/spoilers):** Mistress/pet (lightly graphic), feeding,

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

* * *

 **Your Death is My Life**  
 _Chapter 4:_ —

"Hey, Charles," Athos called to the Gascon from where he stood in the hayed stall of his stallion, "Can you come here for a moment?"

d'Artagnan finished filling the water bucket attached to the side of the stall of another horse down the stable, before he set his own bucket down and approached the older Musketeer.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"We're due to go out on a mission tomorrow morning," Athos answered, stroking the muscled beast's neck. "And I wanted to check that every was alright with Roger for me to take him, and I noticed that his posture seems a little off."

"Off..." d'Artagnan repeated, and turned his gaze from the man to the horse with a studied gaze.

Shortly after being healed through-and-through it appeared, by Constance's blood, they had put him to work around the garrison, a compensation for the allowance of his staying there and not as a trainee to become a commissioned Musketeer. They discovered that Charles had a infinity for taking care of the horses, due from back in d'Artagnan's days when he was back in Gascony and his father was raising him to a proper caretaker to the family built establishment.

So along with handling the stables with the stable master and another stable boy Jacques, he sometimes helped in the kitchen with Serge, or cleaning the Musketeer laundry. He had shortly turned from being a vampire's pet, to that of the human's. He had definitely taken a demotion in his standing. Being a human's pet didn't offer the same advantage as being a vampire's. There was no exchange of blood that made him better than he was. He was offered human companionship.

d'Artagnan _did_ note something a little off with Roger's stance. Charles had a whole life here at the garrison, and he took it all very seriously. He was committed. He knew horses, but he especially knew the Inseparables' main steeds. It was them, man and horse, that he interacted with most.

He stepped into the stall, running his palm over the horse's muzzle as it lipped his palm, looking for the treats that d'Artagnan sometimes gave him; Donner, and Bronze, Porthos and Aramis' horses. He circled the horse once, his palm never leaving the animal, his fingers twitching down the boney limbs as Roger snorted. It wasn't until he was at the front left leg that he noticed the slight imbalance.

"Can you hand me the shuck?" d'Artagnan asked, pointing to a shelf overhead in the main lane of the stable.

"Did you find something?" Athos had been riding horses since he was a boy, but it hadn't been until he had been older, and had no one else to take care of the mount but himself when he left home, that he truly learned to respect and care for the animal. So he easily knew what the Gascon was talking about, and easily handed over the instrument.

d'Artagnan nodded as he took it, "His shoe, probably." He patted the horse's ribs. "Alright, buddy. Let's see what's up." And his hand traced down the animal's foreleg and lifted at the hoof. He bent the horse's knee, and grasped its hoof in-between his own knees.

He started to scrap away the gunk on the inside of the curve with the flat hook, and Athos took a hold of the light bridle still around Roger's muzzle and stroke between its nostrils for distraction as he watched d'Artagnan work.

There was always a passion and longing in the young man's eyes, the Musketeer saw, when he was with the horses. And he couldn't help but wonder at the innocent emotions. Was it to return to something old, or to ride a horse for the first time?

d'Artagnan had done nothing to warrant any form of suspicion, other than what Constance had said before she left after the first time she had given the Gascon her blood to heal. d'Artagnan seemed to be dealing well with the loss of his sister, Anna, and was very dutiful in his work around the garrison for the room that he shared with Jacques, their other stable boy. He didn't seem to have the intention of leaving and going back to the Court of Miracles, and Athos couldn't find blame in him for that. The garrison gave d'Artagnan safety, stability, and companionship that the Red Blood District stripped away from a person along with their self-dignity and morality.

"I wasn't here when you returned from your last assignment," d'Artagnan said, pausing to ask for the brush. "Jacques wouldn't have seen anything amiss." He inspected the shoe that was nailed to the bottom of Roger's hoof, running his fingers along the inside. "It feels like a nail head has shifted too close to the wall of his hoof, and that might be what's bothering him. Could you hand me the..." he trailed off as he looked over and found Athos already standing there, with the clincher already in-hand. "Thanks." d'Artagnan took the tool, and tightening the grip of his knees on the animal's ankle, he took hold of the errant nail, and shifted it to a better angle. "There we go." He released Roger's ankle, and ran the palms of his hands along the steed's ribs. "That was a good catch, Athos. In the long-term, if not caught, that could have caused a lot of problems for Roger."

Athos just nodded and patted the Roger's thick neck before he departed from the garrison stables. The smile stayed it's place as d'Artagnan retrieved his abandoned bucket and finished his round of the stable. Tomorrow, with the Inseparables gone from the garrison, it would be his chance to finally report in with Milady.

* * *

Everything went off without a hitch. The next morning, the Inseparables left on their assignment as planned. d'Artagnan went about his usual chores, joking around with the younger boy, Jacques, throughout the day, before night finally fell. He was able to slip passed the guards posted on watch at the gate; they were looking for people trying to sneak **in** , not someone trying to sneak _out._

He easily slipped through the crowded streets, his cloak pulled tight about his body. Before long, he was out of Paris, and the clawing shadows of the dead woods came into view. The moon cast their shadows long and thick, and the wind pushing through their naked and twisted branches made them moan and come to life.

The next thing he knew, he was grabbed from behind. He struggled, but to no avail—he was no match for vampire strength. He was struck with vertigo as his world moved around him beyond a speed that his human eyes could process, day or night.

Her hand clenched a fistful of his shirt, holding him steady as he wobbled at his precarious standing. "What a precious little snack you are," she hissed, her glowing red eyes helped him find her face. "Just a little piglet, walking into my web." He knew they weren't red from hunger, but with her rage; he wasn't that special a dish.

"Mistress!" his eyes darted around and he was met with a clear line of sight of the top of the twisted trees.

They were up one of the tallest, gnarled trees, at the very top. Milady, in her thick skirts, balanced delicately on the thin branch without issue. She was light as a feather, her weight didn't seem to have an effect on the thin limb. He was at the very edge, tiptoeing on nothing but the spider web of twigs at the end of the branch. The only reason why he was still up there was because of Milady's grip.

"You smell like them," she said, leaning forward and drawing her nose along his neck as she inhaled sharply. "I've seen you, pet. I've been watching... Charles."

And she released him, and his weight snapped through the web of twigs at his toes and he was free-falling.

A sharp gasp left him. There was no laughter, no somersaults through the air, or bows to the audience at a stellar landing. The only thing that awaited him on the ground now, was a broken back or smashed skull. He was simply human now, plain, old, weak.

"I did what you said! I'm on the inside!" he screamed, flailing through the air, trying to put himself in a position that left him alive.

And then there was a bruising force at his back and behind his knees, and he was overwhelmed by her perfume. She'd flitted down from the tree and caught him, was cradling him like a baby in a crushing hold. He only saw her pale milky skin, and the red glow of her eyes, before there was another blur of movement just as he had oriented himself again, and she had him by the neck, off the ground and shoved back against the black bark of the same tree that she had thrown him from.

"It's gone exactly as you planned, Mistress. As you predicted!" he kept completely still, he didn't fight her. "They're eating from the palms of your hands and don't even know it."

She watched him as he babbled, listened to the familiar rush of his hot Gascon blood. Her hand moved from around his neck and tangled into his longer locks. He yelped as her sharp fangs pierced his neck, but it quickly turned into a moan. His heart beat faster and as his blood was sucked into her mouth, it also flowed down and lodged somewhere else altogether.

Her one hand tugged at his hair, and the other clawed down his shirted chest before grasping the eagerness between his legs. He gasped at her rough touch, and thrust eagerly into her palm. She smirked against his throat as his blood pulsed across her tongue, and warm down her throat.

Finally, she released his neck, the fang wounds sealing themselves, leaving a small smear of her lipstick. She cocked his leg around her hip and before he could even complete the whimper at the loss of her hand, he was thrown back onto her night bed, sans most of his breeches and her skirts hiked.

She seated him firmly and he gave a deep throated groan at being inside her cold body, heated by his own blood. Using her inhuman speed, it was all he could do to grasp her gartered thighs. His vision was star-spangled, until, upon his Mistress' order and permission, the pent up mass of pleasure left him into her.

Completely sated as she climbed from him, he did nothing as she crooked his knee and leaned across his other leg. Her lips brushed against the inside of his thigh, and then her fangs grazed the very same flesh before they sunk into the flesh and the artery that lay beneath.

She hummed in satisfaction as she tasted his blood wash once more over her tongue. The smell of their completed coitus entering her nose and giving his blood a salty taste. She had found long ago that outside influences could alter the taste of someone's blood. Like what they ate, or what emotion they were feeling.

d'Artagnan sighed as she finally withdrew her fangs, and her tongue grazed across the previously punctured flesh. There had been a lot of ways that this meeting could have gone. A little fear, a little feeding, a little sex. Just like old times. Over the past year that he had been her pet, this had been the longest that they had been apart. His next meeting, he didn't expect it to go the same.

Next he looked at her, they were decent and her eyes were the colour green. He didn't have the energy kick that he was used to after a feeding, without her blood. He yearned for it, and she smirked at him, knowing exactly what he was craving.

She held out a small velvet pouch to him, and after a moment, he took it in hand. "What's this?" he opened it and shook some of the round contents into him palm. "Blueberries?"

She chuckled. "Not exactly. When you return to the garrison, before Athos and the others return to Paris, you are going to mash these," she took one of the dark berries and carefully rolled it between her thumb and forefinger, "And you'll mix it in with Captain Treville's next meal. And when Athos returns, it will be to the terrible news of his beloved Captain death."

d'Artagnan looked at the berries dubiously. " _These_ can do **that**?"

"They're berries from the plant called nightshade, they're deadly poisonous, my pet." She rose the berry toward his lips. "Don't believe me?" he bulked before it could brush his lips and she chuckled before putting it back in his palm with the others; for which he quickly shuffled back into the pouch.

Though Athos was her main obsession, the Musketeers were a natural enemy to a vampire, so taking off its head would be in the favour of any of the undead. Aramis, Porthos, and Captain Treville were just the emotional topping to the pie in Milady's thoughts.

That's why it confused him somewhat that she would so eagerly kill Treville, but wanted to kidnap Aramis instead of letting d'Artagnan kill him outright.

"Just the Captain?" d'Artagnan questioned.

She chuckled as she fell back against the rutted blankets. "Just ol' Treville. This is just the beginning—Charles."

D'Artagnan nodded and stood from the bed, the small pouch of deadly berries held delicately in his hand. He knew a dismissal from her when he saw it. He left the familiar surroundings of the past year, and returned to a more recent come familiarity.

They trusted him, he was a part of the scenery now.

He was the poison from within.

And now was the time to strike, as for Milady's instruction.

[tbc]

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 _ **Sorry for any inaccuracies with the horseshoe bit, I tried to be as realistic about it as possible - you know, I Google-d it and everything! :)**_

y


	5. Chapter 5

**a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and general vampire concerns.**

 **Chapter includes (warning/spoilers):** poisoning, character death!

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Your Death is My Life**  
 _Chapter 5:_ —

Sneaking out of the garrison hadn't been an issue for d'Artagnan, and nor was his return into Paris and the garrison through the streets at that time of night that he considered 'dead'. The transition period from night to day, where the streets were left blank with vampires flitting to their sun blocked hideaways, and the humans getting ready to rise for their long, laborious day of work.

Jacques didn't even shift in his sleep as he returned to their room and laid in his bed, still fully clothed. The small pouch that held Captain Treville's waiting death felt a million times weighted as he clasped it gentle under both palms against his beating heart.

Milady wanted this done before the Inseparables returned, which was due late afternoon, so when the rooster called, d'Artagnan would rise, and slip into the kitchen before Treville's breakfast was served.

He dozed lightly. The exhaustion of working all day, and then his visit in the night to his Mistress, it was all very exhausting without the pick-me-up of her blood. It had been so near, her cold blood that exploded inside his body, thrumming beneath her skin. He couldn't tell if it had been a lingering connection or his addiction.

But soon, it wouldn't be vampire blood that he longed for, but human blood he craved. Treville's death would be the first devastating blow that threw Athos' demise into final action. Once that happened, Milady would finally turn him.

When the sun finally gained ahead of the horizon, and rooster called an awakening into the morning, d'Artagnan bolted up in his bed with a start and he belatedly realized what was in his clench hand. He quickly dropped the small pouch from hand and wiped his hand on the covers. Milady said consuming the berry was death, but what if he got its juices on his skin? Carefully, he picked up the deathly object with his fingertips and opened it. From what he could make of the dark confines, were that most of the berries were crushed from his wake-up-call. He figured that he would need all of them to take down a man of Treville's size, so he had better get a move on before all of the juices soaked through the pouch.

Wrapping the pouch in an extra rage for protection, he carefully tucked it into his belt. Jacques was still sleeping, so on his way out, d'Artagnan kicked the boy's bed, who groaned and sat up blearily instead.

d'Artagnan easily made his way from the barracks, across the yard, and to the kitchen.

Serge was there. Old and cranky, with a permanent limp that would always be a hindrance and painful. d'Artagnan had asked the Inseparables why he didn't just take some vampire blood—Serge flat out refused when Constance offered him some. He despised vampires, they were the cause of the very same injury that forced him into early retirement and into a cook, not to mention the madness and darkness of the world, so he snubbed them.

The old man was already starting on breakfast for the garrison, and when he caught sight of d'Artagnan, quickly started barking orders at the young Gascon. d'Artagnan simply did as he was told, just waiting for the moment when he could slip the berries into Treville's breakfast.

Serge never gave Treville special treatment in the kitchen, and he would have refused it had it been presented; a Captain ate what his men ate—but even the Captain had his vices. So, as Serge stirred the large vat of clumpy gruel, on the opposite side of the kitchen by the shelves, d'Artagnan took out the pouch with the nightshade berries in them, and emptied it out into a small bowl. With a spoon, he pasted them, separating out the clumps.

From the shelf, he took down the jar of dark jelly that Treville favoured from the kitchen to put in the tasteless oatmeal that was served to the garrison, and spooned out more than half the contents, before he replaced it with the nightshade jam. He mixed the contents before replacing it on the shelf. The colour was probably darker than usual, and the consistency would be a bit off, but d'Artagnan didn't believe that Treville would notice anything outwardly ominous about his jelly.

He didn't really know the Captain. He'd only met Treville officially the once when he was still healing from Milady and the glamoured beating in the sickrooms, and had only seen him at a distance since. Of course, like all the other Musketeers around the garrison and especially the Inseparables, he'd been cataloguing their schedule and habits when possible. The older man seemed like a good and respectable man, the Musketeers followed his orders without question, he knew how to command them, and it appeared that he had the liking of the King as well. It would be a shame for Paris to lose such a man, but as needs must.

Jacques finally came, looking as unkempt as always, straw in his hair, even as he'd just come from bed, and took the bowl served to him by Serge for Treville, and the jar of jelly that d'Artagnan had just tampered with.

And the morning progressed...

* * *

d'Artagnan slowly crossed the yard on his return from the laundry, all the clothes strung up to dry, casting a imperceptible glance at the balcony above to the Captain's office. He would be finished his breakfast by now, but the question was: did he eat enough of the jelly to die or just feel sick? There were no alarms going off, no one had been alert of the man's demise—d'Artagnan's heart thumped with the anticipation of it. How long until his body was discovered?

But what d'Artagnan didn't know as he left with his laundry chore, that Treville received a message from the Palace as Jacques was giving him his breakfast. Treville ignored the meal, knowing he was better to face whatever folly the King was facing and the Cardinal's presence on an empty stomach. He offered it to the boy, who ginned in response, and took the gruel _and_ jam to the stables were he always ate, but not before he readied Treville's horse and the Captain departed.

d'Artagnan discovered Jacques' body in the corner of an empty stall in the stables. He saw the half-eaten bowl of gruel over-turned, the jar of jelly that was more than half empty with a spoon stuck in it—Jacques… still, dead. His face was splotchy and his eyes were bloodshot and frozen wide open, his mouth locked agape, dried froth coated around his lips tinged pink.

It was terrible sight, and d'Artagnan's stomach heaved. Nothing came up, which was a relief in itself; he'd hadn't eaten breakfast that morning, too anxious and unable to get away from the kitchen fast enough.

He was panic seized for several long minutes. Jacques was dead, which meant that Treville was still alive; that had been why there wasn't any hunting parties out for the killer. When Milady discovered this screw up... Milady had told him—!

He was being completely cold-hearted, he knew. Jacques was just an innocent kid that had been caught in revenge-filled crosshairs (just like Treville would have been)—but he couldn't let it be discovered. He needed to hide Jacques' body before it was discovered, or it would be him in the hangman's noose. It was his priority at the moment, he was on the clock for the unbridled rage that Milady would show (unless he could kill the Captain before the Inseparables returned and night fell).

d'Artagnan crouched by the dead boy, his features forever twisted in fear and agony of his death. He whispered an apology as he closed the boy's eyes, before taking the slighter body in his arms. His salvation on the matter came in the form of a wheelbarrow. Folding Jacques into the space, he took a pitchfork from where it leaned against the wall and started to muck out the nearest stall. He killed the boy, and now he was disgracing his body with horse dung.

But no matter the guilt or disgust he felt, his own confession would absolve nothing. Jacques would still be dead and himself would follow soon after. Two stalls and Jacques body was completely obscured. d'Artagnan cleaned up the spilt gruel and tucked the jar of a jam into his belt; (perhaps another opportunity would arise to use it).

Taking a deep breath and exhaling, he grasped the handles and walked into the yard with his guilt. No one paid him any attention as with the kitchen, as he crossed the yard from the stables with the filled wheelbarrow and left the garrison, going around the side of the compound to the usual disposal site for the manure was, before it was either burned and used for cultivating.

Moving out of sight of the street, he parked the wheelbarrow and took up a pitchfork. He dug a hole through the manure near the bottom, only stopping when the hill seemed about to collapse on top of him. He removed the cover from Jacques and with more apologies leaving his lips, shoved the boy's body into created crevasse before covering the gap with the removed muck. Sending up a prayer that felt more like an insult than a comfort, he left the boy.

His absence would be noted long before his body was found, but d'Artagnan didn't think he would be suspect in the disappearance. To all on the outside, there was no qualm between the two of them, there was no reason why the Gascon would have killed the stable boy.

They would just think that the boy ran away, or was taken by a vampire. It wasn't uncommon and a very plausible explanation. He was out on errands as was the norm, and then he was snatched away, never to be seen again. He didn't have any family, he was an orphan, he only had the Musketeers, but to them, stable boys come and go.

d'Artagnan returned with the wheelbarrow now empty and finished mucking out the stalls, shovelling the hay and manure into what had shortly been Jacques' hearse. He swore an apology at the dead boy against as he unloaded more muck onto the pile.

He'd still seen no sign of Treville as the sky started to slowly grow fainter. Either the man had left the garrison, or he'd really eaten some of the jam before Jacques had taken it and his body still laid yet undiscovered. The Gascon fought the urge to climb up the stairs to the balcony and peak into the Captain's office just to see which assumption was correct and how much he was going to have to worry about his next meeting with Milady. But doing so just might attract attention that he very much didn't want. It was best to just let the situation play-out.

Serge had already started in on the dinner service. d'Artagnan could faintly smell the cooking meat wafting across the yard. His mouth salivated at the smell, but his empty stomach squirmed a little. He hadn't eaten all day and knew that he was going to have to—he would need strength to face whatever the night brought.

He was just starting to make his way across the yard where some of the other Musketeers were, getting their share of food, when four horses rode through the gate. d'Artagnan took a moment to search out their faces and immediately recognized the Inseparables finally back from their mission, and their forth companion, his living state revealed, Captain Treville.

d'Artagnan ignored the unease in his stomach as he quickly approached the men as they dismounted and immediately took the reins of their horses. They each gave him some form of acknowledgement; a nod, murmured greeting/thanks, a clap on the back. He guided the four horses, two lead by each hand, to the stables. Treville, clearly in good health, went back up to his office, and the Inseparables gravitated towards their table and the promise of food and wine.

Night completely fell by the time that d'Artagnan was done sorting out the horses tack and giving them a quick brush-down from their journey. Now that Jacques was dead, all the work fell to his shoulders. And when he stepped out of the stables, and saw the three Inseparables still seated at the table that stood near the stairs to the balcony, beckon him over and offer his some of the stew, a smiled glided easily across his lips as he slid in the bench next to Porthos.

He couldn't help but feel the security of the large man next to him as he laughed at something Athos deadpanned. He was definitely not leaving the garrison tonight to seek Milady out and confirm the bad news that Treville was still alive; he just hoped that she wasn't pissed enough to seek _him_ out at the garrison, despite the immense danger it would cause for the both of them if she was caught.

[tbc]

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **d'Artagnan being evil is a very inconceivable concept, it's very hard to accept. This chapter doesn't help him that regard, but perhaps there's still time for redemption? You have to keep reading to find out really. :)**

 **Thanks for reading and taking the time to review! :)**

y


	6. Chapter 6

**a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and general vampire concerns.**

 **Note: Yay, an update! I know, I'm looking at it in amazement myself. :)**

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Your Death is My Life**  
 _Chapter 6:_ —

Jacques' absence was starting to finally gain some notice as the next day, d'Artagnan took on the load of his and the dead boy's work, clearly for the Inseparables to take notice. He had slept fitfully the previous night. Fear of Milady flitting through the window. Jacques' bed blatantly empty, his light snores forever absent in the deafening silence of their shared room. He still had the jar of half-eaten poison jam, hidden away in the room.

"You look ragged." Porthos' deep voiced jolted the wary Gascon as he struggled to carry two overflowing buckets of water from the well for the horses drink. "Worse than even Athos after one of 'is more gloomier benders."

"Thanks," d'Artagnan replied dryly.

"Where's Jacques?" Aramis joined the conversation as the two men followed d'Artagnan into stables, neither deigning to assist. "Isn't he the one that usually waters the horses in the morning?"

"Usually." d'Artagnan agreed, setting the pails down. He had decided that it _would_ look suspicious if he kept quiet about Jacques' absence, than if he acted the boy's concerned friend. "I only saw him once this morning, didn't even stay for breakfast."

"'E probably got wrapped up talkin' to the butcher's daughter down at market while runnin' errands," Porthos theorized. "Wouldn't be the first time."

"Ah, a delicate flower in bloom." Aramis murmured a romantic whimsy. "And the boy, like a bee hovering over a scented rose. First loves are such a beauty, but in most cases, a cursed thing."

"I think you're just talkin' 'bout yourself now," Porthos smirked. "Not so lucky with the women as you've been tellin', eh? Fear o' the cold shoulder?"

Aramis sputtered indignantly at his brother as Porthos and d'Artagnan sniggered in response to his reaction. "I've never heard such blasphemy in my life! I've never known a cold shoulder in my life, I'll have you know."

"Now, suddenly, everything about you makes complete sense." d'Artagnan deadpanned.

"A good dose of fear now and then is healthy." All three men startled at Athos' sudden appearance and annotation. A smirk played at the corner of his lips, "See? You three already look much more lively than a minute ago."

"That's because you're always such the light in our lives, Athos." Aramis was the first to recover. His comment didn't much lighten the blue-eyed man's mood in return.

"We should just point you at the vampires and they'll burst into flames!" d'Artagnan blurted cheekily and it was the Inseparables' turn to look at him in surprise for a moment.

Porthos gave out a hoot of laughter and hooked a thick arm around d'Artagnan's neck, pulling the unprepared Gascon in and scuffing up his loose hair brotherly. "I knew there was a reason I liked you, lad!"

"Hey!" It took a short moment of struggle for the wiry young man to free himself and he straightened, his hair thoroughly mussed and his face flushed, but a grin traced his lips.

"We have guard duty at the Palace." Athos informed them in response, clearly not impressed with their display, though slight amusement lay in his eyes.

d'Artagnan nodded, and left the water buckets briefly to tack the Inseparables'' horses. The three men stepped from the stable into the yard to await their mounts. Athos said nothing as longer than usual, d'Artagnan stepped into the yard twice, leading their tacked three horses, just looked at him for a long moment with a piercing blue-gaze before they three mounted and rode from the garrison to the Palace.

d'Artagnan watched them depart, carding his fingers through his hair and clearing out that last few knots courtesy of the burly man. Jacques' absence was now noted, but was not a concern. Tomorrow, he was sure, it would be.

He had at least until the end of the week until he had to really worry about Jacques' body being discovered at its current burial site, especially if he kept pilling on the muck. In the meantime, the scent of manure, fresh and old, would detour any persons or animals from scenting the decomposing corpse. A vampire would probably be able to smell it, but what would they want with a dead stable boy?

He'd just have to find the opportunity...

* * *

d'Artagnan slumped onto the bench at the table in the yard next to Athos, exhausted and hungry. It was the next day and already the extra work was taking its toll on his body, so exhaustingly human.

"You look even better than yesterday," Porthos complimented him, pushing the half-empty platter of bread and sliced meat towards him.

d'Artagnan slumped up on his elbows and started to pile some of the cut meats between two pieces of bread. Food was great, sure, but he could have really went for some of Milady's blood right about now. Or, even better— Constance's. He'd only ever had Milady's blood, but the green-eyes vampire's blood had a sour and spoiled note in the aftertaste that Constance's didn't. He wondered what that was about. Blood was just supposed to be blood, wasn't it? But he supposed, as Milady had once mentioned, other peoples' blood had a characteristic taste, just as there was a difference between pork and beef, chicken and turkey.

He shook the thoughts away and focused on the task at hand—

"I'm still doing Jacques' chores." d'Artagnan complained slightly. He took a big bite and chewed before he spoke again. "I still haven't seen him. I'm starting to worry..."

"Treville is starting to notice his absence as well." Athos mentioned. "He mentioned something about his favoured jam going missing as well."

"You know how he's addicted to that stuff." Aramis interjected and the other agreed.

"Oh," d'Artagnan voiced, straightening slightly (seeing another opportunity). "I have that. I found it the other day while I was mucking out the stables, but I was pretty tired afterward and went straight to bed. I forgot to return it to the kitchen." This would be a great second attempt for Treville's life, just as Milady had originally planned. This way, he wouldn't have to sleep with one eye open, at least not from her, and his plans of becoming a vampire would finally progress. Until then, he daren't leave the garrison at night.

They all nodded around the table, accepting his tale as true easily as they drank and ate intermittently.

"Perhaps this is no longer a romantic outing our young friend is having.." Aramis suggested.

"Everyone knows that Jacques is with the garrison, no one would be stupid 'nough to attack 'im." Porthos scoffed and shook his head at the implied idea.

"Yes. Isn't that the same thing that you said when Aramis was dragged into that alley and nearly killed?" Athos countered, raising a single incisive brow.

d'Artagnan tensed at the mention of the night that he attempted to kidnap and then kill Aramis in an alley before he forced himself to relax. They didn't know it was him, he didn't have to worry about being identified. The same went with Jacques. There was no reason to suspect him of anything.

Aramis rolled his brown eyes at that and stopped himself from reaching up and rubbing his neck. The next couple days after the attack, it wasn't even the punches or the wrestling or the bruises—his throat had been tender, abused; his voice crackled and croaked like he was a pubescent boy again. It was more embarrassing than the times (and there had been many) that he'd been forced to jump out the windows of his mistresses to escape the wrath of their husbands and fathers and brothers, running down the street half-naked.

"I thought we decided that it was just a fluke." Aramis pointed out. "No other attack has happened."

"Maybe there were biding their time," Athos reasoned.

Porthos shook his head. "But why would they take Jacques?" he altered the question last moment from dead. If these were the same guys and they attempted to take the boy, but were interrupted and were forced to kill him instead like what happened with Aramis...

"Perhaps he wasn't the intended target but was caught in the crossfire." Athos said. His gaze flicked to the corner of his eye to look at d'Artagnan before looking across the table at his two brothers. "I think we should discreetly start asking around. I'll let Treville know." They others nodded there agreement.

d'Artagnan blinked around at them. "You were attacked?" he asked Aramis.

Aramis looked at him with mild amusement. "Pick up on that, did you?"

He sputtered. "I was just trying to keep up."

Porthos chuckled. "I think maybe a nap is in order, lad."

d'Artagnan looked embarrassed. "I'm a grown man!"

A thick brow arched, veiled humour in his brown eyes. "I nap all the time... are you saying I'm not a grown man?" d'Artagnan froze and a grin cracked the man's face easily at his reaction. "You really are at your rope's end if you can't tell apart from a joke."

"M-maybe a... nap would be good." d'Artagnan admitted hesitantly after a moment. He stood, food still in hand and crossed the yard with a parting nod. He had heard their plans concerning Jacques. He hoped his 'nap' would give him the inspiration to come up with his own.

"Has he been off lately?" Athos questioned quietly, looking across the yard to watch d'Artagnan's back disappear into the barracks.

Aramis shrugged. "Taking on Jacques' chores along with his own, not to mention worry over his friend's absence, he's bound to be a little stressed."

Athos took another drink from his cup and said nothing. A moment later, he rose from the bench and headed up the stair to Treville's office.

* * *

A thunderstorm wracked through the night. The rain heavy, the thunderclap loud and booming like a cannon, the lightning a ever flicking candle flame next to his eye, the whipping winds tearing at his window's shutters.

d'Artagnan tossed and turned, caught between a waking nightmare and sleeping nightmare. He was always bad in storms, especially since he lost his parents. Surprisingly, before the Jacques incident, he'd had no trouble sleeping within the den of hunters. Unreasonably, he slept more restlessly with his Mistress down the hall.

When morning dawned, d'Artagnan stumbled from bed, threw on his clothes from the previous day, and staggered from the barracks and into the yard. He splash through the deep puddles in the muddy ground, the sky dim and grey, but he found himself squinting through it. The nap that he accidentally slipped into the day before, was no help to him now. The storm, as they always tended to do, gave him a heavy migraine.

He paused at the end of the tunnel, pushing his hand into his hair. It was like the extreme after-affects of binge drinking, without the before-math of the substance. He much preferred the vampire blood, so much more beneficial. He knew it would clear up his head right good right about now. But he didn't have any, and he wasn't going to tempt fait by approaching Milady or any other vampire or dealer for that matter; so it took him a moment to actually realize something was going on.

There was a lot of traffic out front of the garrison gates, not particularly unusual, but maybe for the fact that a lot of them were actually Musketeers. Unthinking, he backtracked through the gate tunnel and out to the hectic street. It was there, in his head ache, that he was pushed along with the flow of active bodies—and therefore found himself at the mouth of the alley beside the garrison.

The dead-end lane was just blanketed in mucked hay blown awry by the storm last night. Like with the yard, it was almost like a marsh. There was no telling what was mud and what was manure.

"What's goin' on?" he mumbled to man next to him in the crowd. He couldn't see for the small cluster of Musketeers down the way.

"They found a body," the older man answered soberly. "Such a shame. Just a kid, too. Hear he works for the Musketeers."

d'Artagnan's body reacted before his haggard mind could, and he threw up, spewing last night's food into the makeshift marshland. Finding a body, even that of a kid, was not some new spectacle. So the surrounding people chose their lot for the day, and quickly backed away from the sick Gascon. The unappetising smell of the manure and the sick, slowly drove the rest away. A body was a body was a body nowadays.

But throwing up had helped. It cleared the weight from his brain, purged the poison from his body. When he straightened, it was with a clearer head, and the Inseparables looking back at him from down the alley. d'Artagnan swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Is—" his voice croaked and he cleared his throat. "Is it Jacques?" he managed.

"It is." Athos answered, his blue-eyes piercing, even at the distance between them.

d'Artagnan didn't move, didn't step any closer. Right now, it was better to keep his distance. In truth, he wasn't sure how next his body might betray him. "He's—"

"Dead," Athos nodded.

d'Artagnan gulped, shaking lightly. He didn't know if it was from his recent sick or that any minute now, he was sure that Athos was going to figure him out with that penetrating stare. The storm had revealed Jacques' rotting body to the world—d'Artagnan's most soiled laundry.

Aramis was crouched down beside the body. It was clear that Jacques' had been dead for days now, probably since before d'Artagnan had first commented on his absence.

"Anything interesting?" Athos murmured, his eyes never leaving the Gascon at the mouth of the alley.

Aramis reported the first obvious, the approximate time of death. He carefully checked the body next, but saw no indication of penetrating wounds; no blood staining the boy's cloths, no rips in the material or flesh. He examined the boy's neck next, but was unable to tell if the decolouration on the skin was decomposition, bruises, or something else entirely. The boy's lips were blue, but that could have been anything. Aramis gently peel open Jacques' eyelid, the thin appendage sticking briefly before releasing. Despite the decomposition of the globe, it would be hard to miss the blood shot eyes. Both were in a similar state. His gaze returned to the mouth and after a moment, he pushed down on the stable boy's chin. He examined the dark cavern in the dim morning light, noting more discolouration that he wasn't sure was to simply down to decomp. He leaned forward, his nose hovering, and carefully inhaled.

"... Poison." Aramis finally came to his conclusion. "Ingested... Willingly. I see no sign of struggle."

"Do you know what kind o' poison?" Porthos asked.

Aramis paused and breathed in the boy's mouth once more. He could smell the decay, but under that he could smell... sweet. "Berries...?" he hazarded a guess.

"I guess 'e could 'ave ate them by accident," Porthos could agree on that. But— "But there's no way 'e body dumped 'imself."

"This was definitely not an accident." Athos shook his head slightly.

All three men were quiet for a moment as they internally theorized.

It came to Aramis, locking into place—a conversation from just the other day. Berries... Jam...

"Jam?" Athos repeated.

"Treville's jam." The Spaniard specified, and then the realization snapped into place for the other two men as well. Charles.

"But why?" Porthos asked.

"We'll figure that out later," Athos said. "Let's just grab Charles before he realizes what's going on and then we'll get all the answers we need."

All three men looked at d'Artagnan again, but the young man could feel the atmosphere that leveled between them and there was a knowledge there. The Inseparables knew that he had killed Jacques or that he at least he was accomplice in it. The last thing he wanted was to be caught.

He turned and fled, his feet pounding through the puddles in the street in tempo with inside his skull as the Inseparables cursed and gave chase after their suspect. But Aramis didn't give join with his two brothers, but rushed back into the garrison and to Treville's office instead.

* * *

The storm once again had undone him.

Running full-tilt, d'Artagnan skidded around the corner, his boots slipping in the slick mud from the previous storm. He lost his footing, slipping and then tumbling before he collided with a beam supporting the overhead awning.

Maybe it would have been better if he'd sucked it up and gone to see Milady that first night. The truth was, he was afraid of her, definitely more so than the Musketeers. Milady would revel in torturing him, relish his screams of agony at her hand; while the Inseparables would merely beat him for information before sending him to the Chatelet. Sure, they would still kill him in the end, but compared to his Mistress, it would be an easy death—A welcome she wouldn't allow him too soon.

He'd become complacent in this fantasy world as Charles. Complacent, trusting, naïve...

d'Artagnan cursed as he scrambled in the mud to get to his feet. The back of his worn doublet was grasped and he was yanked to his feet like a rag doll in Porthos' grip as the large man caught up to him in line of his slip.

"Where do you think you're goin'?" Porthos growled.

d'Artagnan reacted, kicking. His heel caught Porthos sharply in the shin and the man cursed at the sharp pain, his hold loosening. d'Artagnan twisted free and instantly took off, only to encounter Athos and his cold hard stare. Athos grabbed his arm, twisting it even as he swept the young man's feet out from under him. d'Artagnan was forced to the mud-soaked ground on his stomach, his hand forced up between his shoulder blades, reaching for the back of his neck—his arm felt ready to snap off at the shoulder. The knee at the small of his back kept him in place and halted his futile struggles.

"Weren't you going to say goodbye?" Athos asked. "Where are your manners... _Charles_."

d'Artagnan didn't answer, sputtering into the mud puddle his face was forced into. People gave the three men a wide breadth, either ignoring them completely, not wanting to get involved, or watching at a safe distance. They were just a bunch of blank people with blank faces. No one in Paris involved themselves in Musketeer business willingly. d'Artagnan would find no help from them, not that he expected any in the first place.

 _Charles_ was alone after all.

* * *

The spoon of steaming oatmeal, mixed with the nightshade jam, was halfway to Treville's mouth when Aramis busted into his office and _slapped_ the spoon from the Captain's hand, sending it clattering to the floor, the tainted oval of gruel a splat on the corner of his desk.

"Well..." Treville looked over at the panting Spaniard. "That was all very dramatic of you, Aramis." His tone was calm as he said it and laid his now-empty hand down. But it turned cutting upon his next words, "And what exactly was that about?"

Aramis straightened and didn't look an ounce of sorry, not with how close that had actually been. "Poison, sir."

"Poison?" Treville repeated in shock.

Aramis nodded. "This appears it might be the second attempt on your life that we know of," and he picked up the small jar of jam with just the scrapings left in the bottom of the dark jelly.

"My jam?" Treville took the jar and examined it. It didn't seem overly deadly.

"They knew exactly how to get to you."

"And who exactly are 'they'?" he set the jar back down and picked up a handkerchief, cleaning up.

"We're not entirely sure at the moment," Aramis paused. "But our current suspect is Charles."

"Charles?" Treville was even more shocked.

"I know, sir." Aramis agreed with the feeling. "We were surprised too, but we just discovered Jacques' body in the alley over, buried in the muck. It appears that he's been poisoned."

Treville sat back. "Why would Charles want to kill Jacques?"

"We believe that was unintended. By all appearances, it seems _you_ were the intended target. As I said, this doesn't appear to be the first attempt on your life."

Treville was quiet for a moment as he tried to think of anything that stood out in the last couple of days before Jacques' disappearance. It came to him a moment later of the memory of being called to the Palace before he could start on his breakfast—he'd offered it to the stable boy before he left. He silently shuddered at the thought that the boy's death could have easily been his own. The King's frivolity had saved his life. Treville sent a silent apology to the dead boy.

His expression composed, he stood. "Where is Charles now?"

"Athos and Porthos are after him as we speak, sir." Aramis said. "With luck, they probably already have him."

Treville nodded and headed for the door. Aramis followed him a moment later, quickly grabbing the jam jar as an afterthought.

This was not going to be pleasant for any of them.

[tbc]

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Well, things are certainly starting to get a bit interesting, huh? D'Artagnan's folly has been discovered… what will the Inseparables do?**

 **y**


	7. Chapter 7

**a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and general vampire concerns.**

 **Note: As I was writing this chapter, trying to figure out what the hell I was even going to do with all of this, where I was going to take it; keep d'Artagnan 'evil' or turning him towards the Musketeers… How would that even work? Could they even forgive such a thing as an attempted assassination on their Captain?**  
 **We'll see…**

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** - **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Your Death is My Life**  
 _Chapter 7:_ —

Athos and Porthos had frogmarched him back to the garrison. d'Artagnan didn't react, soaked and covered in mud. The other Musketeers that caught sight of him, spat at him and cursed at him for killing one of their own and threatening the life of their Captain as they had come to hear. He caught a glimpse of Aramis and Treville standing on the balcony. Athos nodded to the Captain but didn't stop their pace as he and Porthos turned them towards the holding cells in the garrison.

d'Artagnan let himself be manhandled into the chair and tied down. To fight would only be to injure himself. The rush of adrenaline that he felt at the realization of being caught, pushed his migraine completely away—it acted almost like a drop of vampire blood in its false kick.

"Comfortable?" Porthos sneered at him.

d'Artagnan remained silent, his expression aloofly controlled. He would shape his defence around their response towards him. He had spent a couple months watching these men, his eyes open and watching the entire time. He believed he could gage the generality of their next actions.

But in the short silence between them, Porthos' expression grew steadily angrier. Porthos usually let himself be control by his emotion. "Don't you 'ave anythin' to say for yourself?" Porthos demanded, his usually spirited and open face made darker by his rage. "Jacques is dead 'cause of you! All 'e ever did to you was be your friend. _We_ were your friends. And you repay that by tryin' for th' Captain's life next?"

"I didn't mean for Jacques to die." d'Artagnan whispered quietly.

"And what of Treville?" Athos said, his voice cold.

d'Artagnan said nothing, his lips pursed tightly. He knew better than to out his Mistress or her plans of revenge against the blue-eyed Musketeer. It didn't matter that if she got her hands on him now, after his _days_ of failure, that her sharp hands would have a few things to say against his weak human body—because if he told them anything about her involvement or her plans for Athos and his friends... death would be a blissful thing for him.

Porthos' backhand was a powerful thing, it rocked d'Artagnan in his chair, it sent his ears ringing. He'd had worse before, Milady had no competition when it came to dealing out pain, but the large man was strong for a human.

"Porthos." Athos said shortly. And after a brief, heavy breath, Porthos turned from the assaulted Gascon and left the cell through the barred door behind their prisoner. Athos looked at the young man briefly before he followed the bigger man.

* * *

Athos and Porthos reconvened in Treville's office, with the Captain and the Spaniard. Athos and Porthos both knew how to tie a knot, d'Artagnan was going nowhere even if he did somehow manage to get free from the chair, he was still stuck in the cell surrounded by a garrison full of Musketeers that would bay for his head for killing Jacques and attempting to go after their dear Captain.

"Anything?" Aramis questioned, sitting in the only other chair in the Captain's office other than the one that Treville was currently residing on behind his desk.

"He won't talk." Athos was completely sure of that. "No amount of pressure or violence," he glanced at Porthos at that, though he knew the other man had only struck the Gascon from loss of emotion, "Will loose his tongue."

"Then what do you suppose we do?

"He did admit to one thing, though, a admission of guilt. His target _is_ Treville. Jacques' death appears to be a accident."

"What does he 'ave against Treville?" Porthos asked, leaning back against the documents cabinet beside the door, his thick arms crossed over his broad chest.

The Inseparables turned their gazes to their Captain.

"I've never met the boy before." Treville admitted. In fact, in the time that d'Artagnan had been at the garrison in the last two months or so, the Captain had only interacted once or twice with the lad; the first being their first introduction.

"Do we truly believe that he's working alone?" Athos surmised, his gloved thumb hook in his weapons belt as he stood a short distance from the desk. "Fear of retribution could be holding his tongue prisoner."

"If that's true, than I think the lad doesn't 'ave 'is priorities straight." Porthos muttered.

Aramis tapped the small jam jar at the corner of Treville's desk, the inside lightly coated with the deathly poison mixed with the traditional jam. "I'm not exactly sure what kind of poison berries this is yet, I'll need a bit more time—But I can its nothing I've ever come across in France. It must have been smuggled in."

"Charles doesn't seem the like to have connects like that." Treville agreed to the testament that d'Artagnan had a boss.

"Is Charles even 'is real name?" Porthos scoffed.

Athos was silent for a long moment. He knew the others believed it so, but he wasn't so sure himself. When Charles was called, there was no hesitation as if someone concocted a false identity and wasn't used to being referred to by such name. The Gascon responded instantly, and Athos had caught the light that flashed through his chocolate eyes; like he was surprised to be called that, his _actual_ name. "Whether its his true name or not, does not matter."

"But who could hate the Captain enough to set up such an elaborate scheme?" Aramis mused.

"If we can't get the answers we want from him by normal means," Athos stated. "Then we'll just have to wait until night falls and the _Madame_ can come and lend us a hand."

* * *

There was still the hint of vomit on the back of his tongue. The lingering smell of wet, mud, and waste soaked through his clothes. His skin itchy from the damp. His stomach felt decidedly hollow from its emptying at the alleyway mouth. The throbbing of his migraine was back into affect. And no matter how uncomfortable the chair they had him tied to, d'Artagnan refused to show any weakness—even something as small as this. Even if no one was there to witness the act.

The Inseparables didn't return, he was left alone for hours, left to his thoughts and his imaginings. An over active mind was never a place to be, a place that d'Artagnan always tried to fight away from this last year and especially since he became Charles.

Of course, he wondered what they exactly planned to do to him. Intimidation. Torture. If they were desperate, which he knew they would become, it could get pretty bad. He didn't believe it could be any worse than what Milady had done to him, but then, she hadn't truly _tortured_ him.

His silence would be his ultimate death (the Musketeers), but his voice would only lead to his torturous future where death would be a blessing (his Mistress).

He'd fallen into the life of 'Charles'—no; the **roll** —of 'Charles' too easily, too simply, like a pair of well-worn, old boots at the bottom of his foot chest. It was familiar a thing to spend his days in the stables with the horses and be Charles-the-Musketeer-stable-boy. It was an old skin that he had lost when his parents were killed, the family built farm nothing but rubble and ashes in the aftermath with d'Artagnan left helpless to do anything to prevent it.

He'd made a home here that felt more safe and welcoming even as he was pretending to be something that he wasn't. Even if he could never entirely be the Gascon he was before he lost his parents, when he was with Milady. The young man who's biggest trouble had been keeping foxes out of the hen house, instead of now where his neck always seemed to be in the line-of-sight of an arching blade that came in the form of Musketeers and his Mistress.

Even as he had tried to kill Aramis, even as he planned to kill Treville—when he wasn't plotting, he'd been Charles. He'd almost been the old Charles. He could almost be... himself. His old self…

Labarge, he was a man for hire. A thug, a bastard. d'Artagnan still didn't know who had hired him, or even if he was in Gascony for a job or just passing through the farming community. But his stay had resulted in the devastation of d'Artagnan's life and future. A complete upheaval, dousing, and flaming consumption.

He hadn't killed anyone before, his life as a farmer had never entailed such tragedies. Not until that night, not until his parents. Not until he finally tracked down Labarge and killed the man to avenge in the cruel deaths of his parents, of his own future. And then afterward, the countless people who blended together so thoroughly that the brought no emotion to him but regret, of the people who he brought to her to feed on who would never return to Paris again, their homes, their families, their jobs.

His need to become a vampire so he would never be so weak again, so human, so vulnerable—powerless. The hunger for vampire blood, to feel that power in his body, pumping through his heart. To be a vampire and not have to rely on others to be strong. He'd take what he wanted, what he needed. No one would be able to hurt him again...

He hardly noticed it as the dim sunlight shinning through the window down the hall from his cell dimmed even further and he was cast into darkness. His thoughts and feelings directed totally inwards as he reassessed his life choices as any man nearing his death did.

He thought silence was his best option at this point, because of his very appropriate fear of _her_. Because she hadn't come and tore him out of bed when night fell. But just because Milady hadn't, didn't mean that she wouldn't, that she _couldn't_.

But was there really, truly a point in fearing her now? He knew either way he was dead. And it wasn't even about which death would be less painful anymore—at least not where his body was involved. But what about his soul? If his parents were alive now, how would they look upon him? Could they truly see him even in death?

The creak of hinges brought d'Artagnan back into the reality of the situation. He looked behind him, squinting at the lit torch that was put in the bracket by the door and cast the small cell in lightness.

Four figures were revealed in the light. Three men, and a vampire woman with pale skin, red hair, and blue eyes...

[tbc]

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

y


	8. Chapter 8

**a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and general vampire concerns.**

 **Note:** **For real, I had such a hard time writing this chapter. I seriously just wanted to brush it under the rug and forget all about it, but then there was just this lump there that I kept tripping over. Damn...**  
 **Because I didn't know how to make d'Artagnan a complete psychopath without regrets and yearning for what could have been and what still be, even though over a year with Milady might do that to you... This is what I** **'** **m going with.**

 **Chapter includes (warning/spoilers):** glamour, violence, death (?)

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Your Death is My Life**  
 _Chapter 8:_ —

The night was cool against his hot and sweaty skin...

He'd been stuck weaving in and out of the dark and dangerous night-time streets of Paris for an hour before he'd finally been able to flee the city. He didn't stop in the run to his Mistress' residence, he practically ran none-stop; didn't dare take a break with the possibility of a tail of Inseparables.

He panted heavily, pausing and leaning against the black, gnarled tree for some support as he attempted to bring the night air into his tight and taxed lungs. It had been easily to get lost in Paris, once he turned around those first few corners, but exhausting nonetheless.

The small, dark wood of marsh, with its bent and crippled trees like knobb-y, contorted clawing hands held a musk of fear that it hadn't since Milady had first taken him in. The fear factor amped up with true fear for his life. He had mixed feelings on the fact of whether she was actually there, or if she was off hunting in the city, either for a meal or his head, waiting for him to be from the garrison.

He straightened, his breath mostly caught. He wiped the beads of sweat from his face with his torn and dirty shirtsleeve—and stepped through the woods towards the house with its high tower almost like a beacon. He stumbled once or twice, tripped up on the black snaking roots that lay hidden in the fog that wisped and wasped across the ground, until he mounted the steps to the raised porch. He stopped at the door, but only for a moment before he boldly pushed through the door,

It was too late to leave now. His decision was set.

He had nowhere else to go anyways.

He paused at the mantelpiece, using the faint silver light that shone a dim square through the open front doorway as his source of sight, and fumbled for a moment with the match. He struck it, and held the tipped flame to the wick of the candle before it could burn its course. The wick caught and cast the previously dark room in the false dim warmth of the yellowed flame, its corners and depths still shadowed.

The door slammed suddenly behind him without warning, making the candle flame flicker and flutter in the sudden gust of air as the he spun around in surprise. His heart raced like a frightened mouse's. He looked, but he appeared to be the only one there.

"Milady?" he called out reluctantly, his voice croaking for his heart was jammed in his throat. He was weapon less, but even if he had the proper tools to kill the vampire Mistress; it would most likely only end in a postponement of his death instead of a prevention.

He was an amateur. He'd never been properly taught to fight as Musketeers had. His father had taught him back when their family was whole, when the farm was whole, when the future was a common and peaceful thing to obtain. The old Gascon had been a soldier once upon a time, but that was only ever the training he had received. Other than that, it was instinct and vampire blood that kept him alive.

He drew no answer of course. For if she were there, he was sure she would have made her presence known by the ripping off of his limbs from his body. He had a feeling that he quite liked where they were and hoped for them to stay there for the foreseeable future.

It would be absolute bad luck on he wasn't sure who's part if Milady finally, suddenly decided to make a bold move against the Inseparables and garrison on this very night when he made his 'grand escape'. It would be laughable in a not-funny kind of way.

The house felt different now that he had made an enemy of its owner.

He turned from the slammed door and ventured further into the room. Walking around the low table and chaise lounge and made for the stairs. He felt something brush against his back, the flame one the candlewick going horizontal even before he spun around on his heel. But again, the room was empty save himself. Either Milady really was there, or he was being extremely paranoid. After a sharp exhale, d'Artagnan turned back and started up the stairs. The old and worn wood creaked under the weight of his steps; its groans seemed to echo in the empty and quiet house.

"What is this? A traitor in my house?" Her voice floated through the air, soft and silky. He froze at the top of the stairs on the landing. But he knew that faux tone and sincerity. "What shall I do? Kill this traitor? Throw this traitor out?"

"Please, Mistress!" d'Artagnan called into the sudden darkness as the candle's flame sudden went out and he was cast in complete darkness. "Let me explain!"

"Mistress?" she asked. "Is that what I am? Because Mistresses are obeyed by trusted pets, not betrayed!" she shrieked.

d'Artagnan didn't see it again, this time. She was but a brush of air as she moved, but he surely felt it as she shoved him down the stairs with a firm shoulder to the center of his chest with vampire speed and vampire strength. It left him gasping for air that didn't want to work through his frozen diaphragm as he tumbled head-over-heels down the staircase, before he thumped to a stop at the back of the chaise lounge.

He fought for his breath, choking, clawing at his chest. Tearing at his clothes as he struggled with himself on the floor; his body was his own enemy at the moment. But just as suddenly as it wasn't there, it was. He sucked in a breath through his loosening chest; deeply, cleanly, if only a little rough around the edges.

He shifted onto his stomach and climbed onto his knees, swallowing the copper blood in his mouth from his bitten tongue. "I didn't betrayed you! I haven't!" d'Artagnan shouted into the darkness; the candle snuffed out and abandoned somewhere in the dark on the floor. "I would never, Milady. I swear!" he climbed to his feet, a grip on the back of the chaise he'd crashed into.

"Why is Treville alive?" her voice came from the dark, and he spun haltingly, unable to pinpoint its location as it seemed to move or come from everywhere. "Why haven't you come back to me in a week? Left the garrison?"

"The berries!" he gasped. "Something happened and the wrong person ate them. I had to burry the body. I didn't return to you because I wanted to give you his death first!"

Silence met his frantic explanation, until suddenly, the fireplace lit (seemingly by itself), and she revealed herself in the welcoming light. Her pale fingers grasped his toned neck and lifted him bodily from the floor with a single hand. Her irises were red with her fury, her fangs deathly clear and barred between her red lips.

His breath was restricted, his throat tight, but at the moment, he wasn't noticeably chocking. Her face was close to his, the tip of her nose brushed against his. He could feel her breath against his chin. It wasn't real, it was artificial, dead, cool, it held no scent.

Her pupils dilated, ringed in her red irises. Her voice, as it left her red lips in a murmur, was soft, singing, gentle, and it lulled him... she was glamouring him. He fought it for a valiant moment, resisted. It was an unconscious thing, his mind fighting to keep control. He could feel the migraine from that morning come back in full force.

But it was useless, just like anyone, he fell down the rabbit hole.

* * *

Being glamoured, d'Artagnan found, was like sleepwalking.

He awoke from the glamour, definitely confused and still tight-throated. He didn't remember anything from the moment he was caught in her glamour, to now—looking up to the stars and the moon in the lightly clouded sky and the breeze ruffling his sweaty locks. He didn't remember Milady talking him up here, and he absolutely didn't remember telling her something that she was obviously very displeased to hear.

She was still holding him by a smothering grip around his neck, his entire body from the knees up were hanging outside the window facing the front of the house at the highest part of the house, the tower. His entire body tensed and he locked his knees around the windowsill and his fingers scrambled for purchase on the sides with a cry of fear.

"Milady! Please, please. Just give me another chance! Just one more—"

"You have failed me for the last time!" she growled, halting him puny wails. "Having put such trust in you, was a foolish mistake on my part. You've exposed me! You're no use to me any longer, not to even feed from one last time. To drink from you now, would be like devouring a skunk. Putrid."

In the vampire world, that was the worst insult a vampire could place on a human. An unfit meal. A blood leper. And for some reason, it hurt. To know that someone was so disgusted with him that they wouldn't accept something from him that could save their life. It made him feel like nobody. Like nothing. Like offering a starving person water, and them not accepting it because it was from _him_. That they would rather _die,_ suffering, than accept anything from him.

"Goodbye, my nothing." She whispered.

His grip on the window did nothing to prevent the fall, because he had expected her to shove him out the window that she was already hanging him out of. That was not the case. Instead, she jerked him forward, pulling him towards her—and she tossed him over her shoulder. He flew across the short space with a cry, and screamed as he crashed through the wood and panes of glass from the window directly across in the tower from the one that she had been holding him out of.

He could hardly see her red eyes as she watched through the broken window, through his one blood-blurry his gaze. Her laughter followed his fast decent. But he turned it away, he didn't want his last sight to be of her. Instead, he looked to the stars and the moon.

It came back to him in the short seconds that it took him to hit the ground, a memory erased with glamour, and false tale planted over it, a vague, clouded thing—

 _d'Artagnan's breath caught in his throat as he saw her over his shoulder. It was like he was seeing Constance in true clarity for the first time. His other two view-ins had been obscured in a haze of pain._

 _"Constance," he whispered, and her name felt beautiful on his tongue. The Inseparables were of no consequence to him at the moment_

 _"It's Charles, isn't it?" she asked, slowly walking around to his front; the Inseparables stayed their point at the threshold and let the Madame do her work._

 _"Y-yes."_

 _"Your true name?"_

 _His nod was silent this time._

 _She looked at the young man tied to the chair in front of her. The Inseparables had called her and she had come. They told her all that they knew at the moment, but the only truth lay within the Gascon in front of her. She knew what the Musketeers wanted from her, to compel Charles_ — _and as much as she distasted the act, she would if it progressed to that._

 _Not all vampires could glamour. It was like sewing; if it could be considered so innocent. You had to work at it to gain the skill. But she found the act of mind control a depraved thing. To have that kind of control over someone, it made Constance shiver. A power that she had. What she was, was one of the most powerful predators in the world—it was a frightening thought_

 _As someone who had be so frighteningly weak and cowed in her human life, now held the power to kill any who tormented her with her fingernails. But she was not that kind of person, who would use her power to cow others as she had been cowed. She refused to be like her husband and the vampires that had turned her. So she became who she was truly supposed to be, who her husband didn't allow her to be—she became like the men who had saved her._

 _d'Artagnan had used his true name. The name that his parents bestowed him with. That wasn't something little, that in fact, told her a lot about the Gascon before her._

 _Perhaps the unintentional time that the Inseparables were forced to give him while they waited for the sun to set and herself to rise, had done something that no torture or beating could produce—the realization of his bad ways._

 _Constance knew that she didn't need to glamour him. His ready and truthful answer of her question on his name was all the vampire needed to know. And she knew it was the truth, other than his eyes and open expression; she focused her hearing and could tell by the steady beat of his heart._

 _Constance looked over his head at the three gathered men in the doorway, and nodded to them, gesturing them into the cell. They shared a brief look with each other, a silent conversation that was perfected by micro expressions and an absolute trust and understanding in each other; before they entered the cell, it quickly losing its remaining space in the company of the three large men._

 _"Charles will speak truthfully," she told them as they gathered on either side of her. "Anything you ask."_

 _Aramis gave a low whistle. "You work fast, Madame."_

 _"Freely. I haven't glamoured him." They all looked surprised at this._

 _Athos' eyes narrowed as he looked at d'Artagnan. "Why would you suddenly be so forthcoming? Earlier, not even the harshest of beatings would of had you talking."_

 _d'Artagnan's expression turned into a twist of embarrassed and rueful. "One of the most deadliest games: being alone with one's thoughts."_

 _Athos' expression remained indifferent, but he did not look on such times himself with any form of fondness; alcohol was his attempt at fighting such consuming flames—with little success to date._

 _"I've been skating on thin ice this entire time," he continued over their predicted silence and scorn. "Even before Jacques. It was only a matter of time; I knew that, even back before you saved me from those goons kicking my ass."_

 _Porthos scoffed. "That was just a play, a way to get into the garrison, wasn't it?"_

 _"It was," he agreed. "But if you hadn't interfered, they would have kept going until I was dead." Nothing could be really said to such a cavalier statement. "But Constance could see through me, this whole time. Ask me anything, like she said—and I'll tell you."_

 _"Who's your boss?" Athos said. "Who wants Treville dead so baldy but is such a coward as to send you?"_

 _d'Artagnan grimaced, not only by the predicted question, but the way it was said, they way Athos said: you. He knew to expect it; he'd just hoped that they could work up to it instead of doing a nosedive into the shit that stained his life for the last year and so._

 _He took a deep breath. "I don't know what you know her as, but to me, she's called Milady de Winter. She's my Mistress."_

 _None of their faces showed any recognition at the name._

 _"You're right. We don't know her. Why does she hate Captain Treville so much?" Aramis asked._

 _"It's not Treville she hates." d'Artagnan turned his gaze to Athos. Athos stared back._

 _"Athos?" Porthos questioned. "She 'ates 'im?"_

 _d'Artagnan nodded. "She hates her husband."_

 _The air instantly stilled and chilled, and d'Artagnan couldn't stop the small shiver that went through him at the physical feeling in the air of the cell._

 _"Anne," he breathed._

 _"Athos—" Aramis started, but the older Musketeer shook his head sharply._

 _There was no way he could have found her body, it would have been consumed along with everything else in the fire. He could only hope that it was finally over, but always suspected that it wasn't. This was the other shoe that he had been waiting to drop unpredictably this last year. He knew that if she was still alive, for which she had a nasty pension for surviving the most dire predicaments, that her entry would not be a quiet affair—vying to Treville's death was definitely not a quiet act._

 _Inhaling sharply through his nose, he gave a subtle nod to his brothers to assure them that he was fine, and turned his burning blue gaze on the suddenly, very uncomfortable Gascon._

" _Tell me everything."_

 _D'Artagnan gulped. This was the very first time that he felt in fear of the other man. Of course he knew that man was dangerous, all of them were, but this was a different intensity to that fear. But as promised, d'Artagnan told him what he wanted to know, starting with his first meeting of the woman and to her first moves against Athos and the Inseparables._

 _Aramis' expression darkened. "That was you, in the alley? You, who'd almost killed me so mercilessly—then not a month later have the gull to sit across from me and break bread, laugh with me?"_

 _D'Artagnan was expecting to be struck, much like Porthos had done earlier at his admission of guilt towards Jacques and his lack of for Treville, but no strike was coming. Instead, the Spaniard's lips curled in disgust toward the Gascon, contorting his handsome face, and somehow, that hurt more than any physical blow. But he pushed the feeling aside and forged ahead._

" _Why did she want 'im?" Porthos managed to grit out._

" _I don't know." d'Artagnan confessed. "She wanted him captured, is all I know. But the plan went a little sideways when you and Athos appeared, so I changed tactic. I figured Aramis' death would be just as big a blow as whatever Milady had planned for him. But I was forced to flee when you fired on me."_

" _Can't say I'm sorry on that." Porthos sneered. "Only wished my bullet 'and't missed."_

 _D'Artagnan gave a grim smile. "Probably would have been the best at this point—but at the time, I wasn't very keen on dying."_

 _Porthos snorted in derision, but said nothing further. The atmosphere, predictably, wasn't friendly, not that it had been much to begin with._

" _What next?" Athos prompted steely._

" _Nothing for bit, other than her grand plan of me infiltrating the garrison." He didn't bother to tell them how pissed Milady had been upon his returned failure to capture Aramis; what would be the point? It didn't much hold any meaning at this point. But he was sure, now that he was looking back on it, that was where her trust in him start to fade. "We had to wait to purge her blood from my system before we did anything—"_

" _You're a blood junky!" Porthos scoffed._

" _Being a pet's different!" he protested, but it was a weak argument and he knew it._

" _You're nothing better than a sex and blood whore!"_

 _Shame coloured his cheeks and he ducked his head, looking away from them._

" _Enough." Constance said. Her voice wasn't raised, it was a whisper, but it cut short any further scathing remarks. "Charles?"_

 _D'Artagnan nodded and inhaled sharply once before he raised his head and continued. He skimmed over the glamoured attack at the Red Blood District, and moved on. "The first time I met up with her since being at the garrison, was about a week or so ago when the three of you went out on that mission I fixed Roger's hoof for. I waited until night, and snuck out. That was when she gave me the berries and wanted me to poison Captain Treville. She wanted him dead, so that you would return to Paris on the devastating news that your friend and leader was dead." He didn't meet any of their eyes, the Inseparables' hatred filled ones, or Constance's kind ones (because she was still so towards him even after all the shameful things he had done, that there was nothing in his life that he had done that there was to be proud of). "It was the next morning that I was able to mix the berries in with Treville's jam. He was supposed to be dead by the time I got back from laundry, but I found Jacques dead in the stables with the jar instead. I acted quickly and hid the body—"_

" _You rolled 'im in the muck like 'e was any other piece of shit!" Porthos hissed with fury and d'Artagnan flinched at the truth of it._

" _I know." He whispered. "And here we are."_

 _Silence filled the cell as they digested his story, accepted their enemy for one they had once knew and thought gone, but was now returned. d'Artagnan had seen the condition that it had left Milady in, a very strong vampire—he wondered what Athos might have looked like, a simple human._

 _"What d'we do now?" Porthos rumbled to the others, but his eyes were directed at Athos, ignoring the Gascon in the chair._

 _It was Athos' wife, it was his decision. On the last, they had also followed his lead. Athos was silent for several long moments, his gaze stuck on d'Artagnan. d'Artagnan, for his part, fought valiantly against the squirm that attempted to wiggle his hips under the intense and calculating gaze._

 _"You're going to take up directly to... Milady." There was a pause before he said her name. "Tonight."_

 _They looked at their de facto leader incredulous._

 _"You want to go after her—_ _ **tonight**_ _?" Aramis gaped. "We need time to formulate a proper plan!"_

 _"If all Charles has said is true, and if I know that woman—her suspicion that he's been compromised with have been spread to her before the night is out—and then we might lose the chance to end her until she decides when to show herself again. But next time, we won't have one up on her like we do at the moment." Athos stated clearly, finally looking from d'Artagnan to his two brothers. "We move tonight."_

 _Aramis took an centering breath. What Athos said was very reasonable, but he wanted to fight against it nonetheless. Whenever Anne or Milady as she was now known, was involved, it never ended well. Last time, it had nearly done Athos in, if Aramis and Porthos hadn't arrived in the knick of time to pull him from the fire (the same one they had believed had finally killed Milady, like hellfire itself, consuming its demon)._

 _"I do hope you plan to elaborate more on this clever plan of yours, Athos." Aramis told him. "Because at the moment, it feels just a tad bit bare."_

 _Athos twitched a thick brow at him, but in verbal response, he directed his words at Constance, "Constance, can you glamour our little friend here into forgetting about getting captured this morning?"_

 _Constance look startled for a moment by the request, but slowly nodded when she realized exactly what Athos was asking her for. He wanted to send d'Artagnan back to Milady as a bait and trap. Dread filled her at the thought, if he went, he would die. She was sure of it and she didn't want him to. She had given him her blood in the first place because she had wanted him to live, to be who he was meant to be._

 _She looked at him._

 _"It's okay." He told her._

 _"Thank you." Constance whispered. She bent close, her face level with his, her fingertips lightly caressing his white knuckles where his bound hands gripped the edges of the chair's arms. "We'll see each other again." She promised._

 _And d'Artagnan looked into her eyes, and all his fear washed away as he was submerged in their blue ocean._

—He coughed feebly, blood spraying from his lips like a fine mist. It had hurt for a moment, the moment he hit. He _felt_ it as his body broke on impact. His weak human form unable to withstand the force of his landing.

He had blacked out for a moment upon the sickening sounds of his body's give, but then his vision returned blurrily. Their was a sharp, slicing pain in his lower back, before there was suddenly nothing. A numbness from his waist down. He found relief in it, instead of fear. He wanted to close his eyes, to let it all finally fade away…

Would they come for him like they did back in the entrance of the Court of Miracles? even if they didn't realize it. Would they come for him now that they knew the truth? Would it even matter?

He wasn't needed anymore. The Inseparables knew the enemy that they were now facing, knew where to find her. But unconsciousness wouldn't take, death was slow to swallow him whole. The soft mist that snaked along the ground, like a cool, moist breath of death against his clammy skin...

[tbc]

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

y


	9. Chapter 9

**a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and general vampire concerns.**

 **Note: Sorry it's been so long. I've been steadfast in ignoring this fic with working on/hiding behind my "Vegas Love" and some The Man From U.N.C.L.E. fics because this is kind of making me want to pull my hair out. Like I kind of know what I want, but then I don't, and I'm not sure how I want to type it out. It's just so figgin frustrating... but finally, here it is. :)**

 **Chapter includes (warning/spoilers):** violence, death.

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

* * *

 **Your Death is My Life**  
 _Chapter 9:_ —

Porthos cursed, as for not the first time since they decided to execute this ridiculous plan, they had lost d'Artagnan's trail in the city, even with Constance's blood.

Constance had fed from a willing Musketeer for the excursion, but not before she took out the small dagger from the folds of her skirts and cut her pale wrist. She'd filled three half-cups with her blood. It was these that the Inseparables drank. They would need all the advantage that their human bodies could get whilst _not_ turning into a vampire, to fight against a very strong, very angry, very cunning vampire.

Constance flitted ahead, she had a eerie bead on the lad. She returned to them about an hour later to report that d'Artagnan had left the city and appeared to be heading for a house in the dead marsh a couple miles from the city.

They had then mounted their horses and rode hard, even with vampire blood in their veins, the animals would still put on a faster pace than they could, and would eat the distance towards the scrambling Gascon.

Now, they stopped some distance away, and tethered their horses under cover of the forest. And then wound their way through the dead wood. Though the trees were bare, there were shadows within the shadow of the marsh, despite the moonlight and their heightened vision.

They paused near the edge of the marsh as the house came fully into view, but they stayed out of immediate sight.

"Looks abandoned." Aramis remarked.

"It's not." Constance said succinctly. Though her gaze could pierce through the night as if it were day, she could not see through walls. She could smell d'Artagnan. He'd been through here, not half-an-hour past. At times like this, her heightened scent was a gift—but others, like being in Paris where people emptied their chamber pots onto the streets, it was not. "Charles is here."

"What about Milady?" Athos' voice was neutral.

She shook her head. "I don't know." It was different with vampires.

"So, what's the plan?" Porthos asked, and the two men and vampire looked at the blue-eyed man from their various positions.

The plan still seemed threadbare. Yes, they'd gone through all the intricacies of getting here. Glamouring d'Artagnan to make him believe that he had escaped on his own and ran back to his Mistress, leading the Inseparables and vampire here. But now that they were actually here, it was a whole new situation. They didn't know where or if Milady was here, they knew d'Artagnan was, but not where either. The inside of the house was complete unknown territory, but when had they ever known the complete layout of a location before they charged ahead? In the field the variables were always shifting, ever changing. Nothing could be relied upon solidly but themselves.

" _Madame_ and I will enter through the front, you and Aramis go around to the back—and we'll meet in the middle, see what we find." Athos decided.

They nodded and Aramis and Porthos started to make their way around the property, under cover of the dead wood, with Athos' count of three minutes, but Constance's urgently hissed "Wait!" stilled them all.

"What is it?" Athos' lips didn't even move with the quietness of his voice, but with her hearing, she heard him anyways.

She didn't answer for a long moment and instead concentrated. The wind had shifted and that was what made her hiss, what scent that was carried on it was... "Blood." And she knew this particular fragrance of blood from her first meeting of d'Artagnan, beaten and bloody in the sickrooms. "It's Charles. He's outside."

A shift in the variables. Now they knew that Milady was around somewhere. She'd probably broke through Constance's glamour and didn't like what d'Artagnan had revealed. "Lead the way." Athos said.

Constance fought the urge to flit around to the back of the house where the scent of blood seemed to be carried from, headless of any danger, only her fear for the Gascon propelling her. But she kept her pace slow enough for even their juiced paces as they flanked her. They encountered no trouble, but even still, she rounded the corner before them.

She gave a wordless exclaim, before she could even attempt to stifle it. She flitted to the Gascon. "Charles." She took his hand delicately in her own, as if any sudden movements and she'd break him entirely.

"Is he alive?" Athos questioned as the three Musketeers finally arrived.

"He is."

Athos and Porthos stood off to the side keeping at eye on their surroundings, and Aramis knelt on the other side of the broken Gascon. Despite his current feelings towards the young man, he pushed them aside; they were on a mission. But hadn't he forgiven Marsac, even after the man had committed a worse crime? Twenty Musketeers were forever dead because Marsac had fallen under the spell of his own vampire Master. Aramis checked d'Artagnan's pulse, he could barely detect it.

d'Artagnan's breath was laboured and wheezing, blood bubbled at the corners of his mouth. But his one eye, the one not cut from the window glass, cracked at the sound of Constance's voice. If he was lucky enough, she could have been an angel. She was anyways, in his eyes, even though he didn't deserve it. His luck in life curtailed with his meeting of Labarge.

"'Stance?" he rasped. He coughed, it wracked through his chest painfully. He turned his face towards Aramis' side instead of hers and spit the blood pitifully from his mouth. "You c-came..."

"I'm here," she whispered, "Just like I promised." She squeezed his hand. "I'm going to give you blood." She said, and forewent the delicacy of her blade. Her fangs descended and she brought her wrist to her mouth.

"N-no. No." He gasped, his voice firm. "Please." That stopped her in her tracks.

"It'll help with the pain." Aramis explained. "It'll help heal you." It might do something, but just by looking at the Gascon it was easy to see that any amount of vampire blood would never fully heal him from his injuries, just prevent death for that much longer. Only turning might save him now, but that was not what the vampire offered.

"Ngh." His head gave a single, small shake. "I d-don't want it-it."

"Wasn't the whole point of being with Milady so you could become a vampire?" the Spaniard asked, incredulous. He didn't understand why he was suddenly so invested. Perhaps it was because he wanted to _understand_.

"It was a s-stupid plan. A childish n-notion. I-I didn't want to b-be hurt again-n, I wanted to be s-strong. I-I did it all w-w-wrong..."

"Charles." Constance murmured.

"Call me... d-d'Artagnan? I always ha-hated C-Charles. B-beside, he d-died a lo-long time ago in a f-fire. He was a f-f-fantasy."

She nodded. "d'Artagnan."

He grinned at her, it was all blood, outlined with pain. "T-thanks."

"What happened?" Athos finally questioned.

"S-She threw m-me out the tower w-window." He laughed, but it quickly turned strangled as he found great difficulty breathing. Aramis looked up towards the house and with his enhance vision, he could make out the remnants of the broken window in the tower.

Constance hushed and soothed him through it and she and Aramis turned him on his side, hoping to relieve some of the pressure and make sure he didn't drown in his own blood by the sounds of it. To Aramis, through his torn clothes, d'Artagnan's body didn't feel quite right under his skin. The Spaniard didn't even have to see as his lower body didn't respond to know the fall broke his back, leaving him paralyzed. He turned back, Constance gently brushing the bloody clumped locks from d'Artagnan blood and cut face. He felt along d'Artagnan's back, proving in fact that it was broken, but also discovered the cause for the blood in the lungs. There was a wicked piece of wood frame stabbed through his back, piercing his lung, by the sounds of it, one of them was probably already collapsed. It was acting like a two-way plug; it kept him from bleeding out but it also filled his lung with blood. It was hard to be sure what would be the final push of the envelope; suffocation, drowning, blood loss, head trauma, shock...

"D-don't know where s-she w-went." He gasped out eventually.

"That doesn't matter now." She hushed him, even as that was the most important thing, the reason why the Inseparables were there.

"I th-think she's o-on to y-you." He panted. "She glam-glamoured m-me and then th-threw me o-out th-the window. I d-don't know what I t-told h-her." Constance cared, but he wasn't sure about the others. Why did it matter so much to him? Because they were all good men, like his father. They were the kind of man that he should have been, but hadn't. "I'm s-sorry I caused so much t-trouble. I was just so l-lost and angry after-after my folks... and Milady w-was t-there, offering me all the an-answers."

"You're not the first to fall into her web of deceit," Athos told him grimly. The blue-eyed man seemed to be giving him a concession, a way out, even after everything.

d'Artagnan shuddered, a unseen weight lifting up off his chest at this allowance. And he started to sink...

"You need to stop running, d'Artagnan." Constance told him, pulling him back.

d'Artagnan's bloodied brow furrowed. "I d-did. I stopped-d and I f-faced h-her and she th-threw me out a w-window..."

"No." Constance shook her head softly. "I made you run to her. I forced you into her arms. This is the moment where it's your choice. Will you hide behind your death or face it?"

d'Artagnan attempted to shake his head, but it didn't entirely work out. "I c-came by ch-choice, Constance. All th-this was m-my own deci-cision." He swallowed the blood filling his mouth convulsively. "I wish we could have met differently—y-you've only ever-ever seen me a-at my w-w-worst. M-maybe—"

"Ugh. How tedious. A deathbed confession, how cliché of you, pet." Milady's voice proceeded her arrival and before they could properly defend themselves, orient her position, Porthos flew the air with a grunt. There was a sickening crunch as he landed headfirst into a thick tree trunk that outlined the back of the property, splintering it with the force of impact.

"Porthos!" Aramis screamed. If they hadn't drank Constance's blood, that kind of head wound would have killed Porthos instantly. As it was, he was out of the fight for the moment.

Aramis' pistol was already out of its holster even before he jumped up onto his feet, a specialized silver-tipped wooden bullet leaving the chamber. It disappeared harmlessly into the woods. Athos' accompanying shots followed the same case. A vampire's speed was all but invisible to a regular human. As it was, Aramis and Athos could hardly see her; she was like a shadow out the corner of their eyes. Only Constance's eyes could track her clearly. A pat to the chest with inhuman strength broke several of the blue-eyed man's ribs before sending him flying, crashing back through the house behind him. He ended up somewhere at the front of the house, struggling, feathers from the broken chaise lounge raining around him.

"Sorry, d'Artagnan." Aramis uttered, crouched behind him. d'Artagnan choked off a sudden cry of pain as he yanked the chunk of wood from the Gascon's back, a gush of blood followed it out. The wood slick with his blood.

"Argh!" Milady's heeled foot came flying above d'Artagnan and towards Aramis, but her aim was off as Constance jumped onto her back, stabbing her in the throat with her hidden dagger. Aramis choked, the kick shattering his collar bone and sent his tumble backwards, to stop against a pile of earth. Constance's interruption had saved him from a wound for which he would not have been able to recover.

Milady ignored the gush of blood and yanked Constance over her shoulder and off her back. But she kept her grip on the redhead, jerking her back towards herself with force, and snapped her spine over her knee. Constance's scream was cut short, and she went slack in the dark-haired vampire's hold. Milady shifted her hold, wrapping an arm around Constance's neck, the other gripping her hair and she started to pull…

The vampire wasn't dead yet, but soon, she would be if Milady kept on how she was, intent of _ripping_ Constance's head from her shoulders. Sun could kill a vampire. Wood to the heart. Of course, beheadment. Beheadment ought to kill anything. They could desiccate. Without feeding for a such a long period, their bodies would eventually dry them out, mummify them. Technically they would be dead—that is, if they survived the insanity of the starvation and didn't drain themselves.

d'Artagnan could hear the sickening pops. He tried to move, but his body was useless, he was useless. "Don't touch her!" d'Artagnan screamed, the force behind the shout sending him into another painful fit of coughs and gasps.

But it diverted Milady's intent and spinning in a circle, she bodily threw Constance, sending the vampire crashing through the forest foliage. Maybe now she'd be the only one to surivive this, if she had the good sense to stay away.

"Const—" her name was overthrown with a grunt of pain as Milady kicked him on the shoulder, sending him onto his back.

"Don't worry, you'll see her again in the afterlife." She planted her heel on his chest, crushing his already broken ribs." You're like a cockroach, d'Artagnan. Hard to kill. That would be a good thing if your loyalties didn't turn at the first new pretty face." He attempted to push her foot off, but it was useless. He was gasping for breath, scrambling at the ground, tearing. He grasped something hard and slick and clung to it. "First I'm gonna kill you, and then the brute and Spaniard. Your pretty little girlfriend. But I'm going to take my time with my husband—this time was a long one in coming and you almost ruined it." She ground her heel.

The darkness of death renewed itself in the shadows of his vision, dancing before his eyes as the only clear thing he could make out were her red eyes.

A large shadowed loomed behind Milady, and she sensed the large man at the last minute, moving. It was this shift that saved her from death. She screamed in pain as the broken end of the large branch stabbed through the left side of her chest.

Porthos cursed at the missed target. He yanked the makeshift stake back and out, jerking Milady along with it. The pressure relieved slightly from d'Artagnan's chest, but it was a little late for anything else but acceptance. Both juiced man and vampire stumbled a moment from their respective injuries. And then they were on each other; Porthos was on her like a bear and she was on him like a hyena. With that severe injury to the chest, she was down several levels and made nearly even with the brawling man. They struggled; Porthos using his fists, and Milady her fingers like blades (like she had done to d'Artagnan when he returned from his failure with Aramis).

She was doing more damage to him, than he was to her. Still, it was a losing battle. Porthos coughed, stumbling back from her, breathing heavily. Blood left his mouth, his abdomen covered in blood and holes the size of her flattened fingers.

Milady smirked through her own bloody mouth. "As promised," she said and lunged forward. She would kill each and every one of them; of course, now not in the order that she had promised the dying Gascon, but they would all get there one way or another at her hands.

There was a screech that wasn't human and Constance flew out of the woods and tackled Milady from Porthos in the air. They tumbled through the air and crashed to the ground, the earth tearing up beneath them. They crashed through the corner of the house, causing it to partially collapse onto itself. They ignored this development and continued their fast-paced brawl. More than half the time, d'Artagnan couldn't keep track of them. There was no way to tell who was winning and who was not.

There was nothing Porthos could do at that point, other than be a hindrance and in the way. So he literally stepped over d'Artagnan, who was gasping, fighting for every single blood-drowned breath, and to his brother. "Aramis? You alright?"

"Feeling better now," Aramis grimaced as he let Porthos pull him from his pile of dirt. "You? Your head?" his arm was crossed over his chest, his hand gripping him bicep, holding his shoulder still. Very soon, the shattered collarbone would be completely healed and the pain would be vanished.

Porthos didn't even attempt to rub at his still tender head, a drill in his brain. It was covered in blood. He felt like he wanted to puke his stomach inside-out and still attached to everything else. His belly was starting to heal but wasn't quite there yet. He knew the only reason why he had lasted against the vampire as long as he had, was because of the hole he put through the right side of her chest. He wouldn't be there now if Constance hadn't intervened.

"Athos?" Porthos questioned.

The two vampires' only visible trail was that of the splintering trees as their struggle too fast and strong for the humans took them into the woods.

"Here." The blue-eyed man answered, climbing out of the wreckage of the backside of the house. His posture of rigid, and he held himself as a man with still tender ribs.

"d'Artagnan?" Aramis knelt beside the contorted Gascon who had twisted himself in a feeble attempt to reach Constance when Milady had been attempting to rip her head off. His only answer was a wet, rattling wheeze of a dying man.

"Where's Milady?" Athos questioned.

"Constance an' the bitch are locked head-on right now." Porthos answered, coming round and clapping Athos light on the shoulder. "They disappeared not a minute ago in th' woods. I put a pretty good 'ole through 'er chest, that should 'elp our _Madame_ out a bit."

Athos nodded, inhaling slowly. He looked to the Spaniard at d'Artagnan's side, murmuring quietly. "Aramis?"

After a moment, Aramis' lips stopped moving and he looked over at his two brothers, his hand lightly laid on the Gascon's shoulder. He shook his head lightly. "Any moment now,"

Milady and Constance crashed back out of the woods and behind the house, tumbling apart. They leapt to their feet in exhausted grace, clothes torn, flesh torn, covered in dirt, covered in blood, their own, their opponent's. Milady's back was to Aramis and d'Artagnan, Porthos and Athos to the side of the two vampires.

The humans were completely ignored, their focus soley on each other. Aramis saw his opportunity and his reloaded pistol was a blur in the air. The shot held volume, but Milady was already shifting for her attack against Constance and the bullet struck home in her thigh. Milady screamed in pain at the wooden silver-tipped bullet embedded itself in her flesh, sizzling.

Constance quickly seized her, but the furious vampire was already in motion.

"No!" Constance screamed. She tried to pull Milady back, but they were tumbling behind the dark-haired vampire's thrown weight. They were headed straight for d'Artagnan, who was unable to move, unable to do nothing but die under their weight. Milady needed to get some satisfaction out of this entire disaster; she was going to kill her pet and make them suffer.

Aramis barely scrambled away to save himself, let alone d'Artagnan.

d'Artagnan saw it coming and turned his clenched fist, fighting the shakes. He cried out as they landed on him, heavy like a boulder, crushing his already crushed body. The triumphant smirk on Milady's red lips morphed into something else as she shriek, her red-irised eyes going comically wide as blood arced from her mouth like a fountain, hitting Constance in the face.

The deep blue veins under her pale skinned pulsed and bloated under the flesh, and then she exploded into a body of blood and sinew, coving Constance and d'Artagnan both.

The piece of window frame that had pierced d'Artagnan's back from the window that Milady had thrown him through, the same that Aramis had pulled from his body in an attempted weapon against the vampire before Milady booted him away; was the very same that d'Artagnan held clenched in his hand with hardly enough strength to hold the makeshift stake point towards the sky as the two vampires tumbled towards him—had been the final and complete death of Milady de Winter.

"d'Artagnan!" Constance sobbed.

d'Artagnan's vision blackened out, his body finally gave out with an almightily shudder and his mouth filled with blood...

[tbc]

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Gah, it was terrible.** **So many moving gears it was a little hard to keep track, but I hope it all made sense.** **Tell me what you think. One more chapter to go!**

y


	10. Chapter 10

**a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and general vampire concerns.**

 **Note: So, this is the (finally) last chapter. Finger crossed! Originally it was part of the last chapter, but I ultimately decided to separate them.**

 **Chapter includes (warning/spoilers):** violence, blood consumption.

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Your Death is My Life**  
 _Chapter 10:_ —

d'Artagnan inhaled sharply, gasping, sucking in oxygen like a desperate man, before the panic cleared from his mind and he settled down a little. He didn't need to breath anymore, so when he didn't and he forgot, panic seized him as he remembered exactly how painful and scary not being able to breath had been.

He wondered how he could so easily forget that he was a vampire. Being undead wasn't usually something someone forgot. But all he remembered was his death and then his undeath. He was entirely shocked to find himself waking up kind of alive, but Constance was there—Constance was here.

He'd been bleeding to death into the ground beneath him, the piece of wood that Aramis had yanked from him left him like a free flowing tap, and then Milady had exploded on him, filling his mouth, his wounds, covering him—and he'd died... and woke up three days later as a vampire. Milady had become his maker after all; in her attempt to kill him, she had saved his life.

But it was a life he had given up on. Constance's question rang through his head; _will you hide behind death or face it?_ Which one did he choose?

He didn't _feel_ the same, like he was an entirely different person.

His heart was like a dead thing inside his chest, a heavy weight. A still stone that had no function but to remind him exactly what wasn't beating life through his body. But Constance had told him that a vampire's heart still beat, a slow single beat once a day.

When he felt it, and he did feel it, that first time—it was like a sledgehammer to his chest and it had scared the life out of him.

His expressive brown eyes, so sensitive; were now turned red and filled with hunger, his stomach was an empty pit; the burn in the back of his throat, the hunger was maddening and needed to be sated.

He felt amazing, especially after he fed. Invincible. He was afraid of himself. The damage he could do, the pain he could cause—it was frightening. He hadn't wanted to be weak anymore, defenceless—but now he was too powerful.

Milady's house had become his. Her 'day-bed', his. Everything, his.

He hadn't seen the Inseparables since, but he hadn't dared to leave the house either, refused to leave. He couldn't trust himself, with the hunger that he had felt, that he used to muse idly at when he was a dumb human wanting to be a vampire.

Constance had babied him for a while; she knew that this hadn't been a choice for himself, just like it hadn't been one for her. But the wallowing Gascon needed a firm kick in the rear now. He was a grown man and he needed to stop hiding.

* * *

Night fell and d'Artagnan awoke, hungry. It seemed it was a constant state, the burning in the back of his throat that could only be washed away with a splash of blood; the gaping hole in his stomach that seemed to go gallons deep and could only be assuaged by the hot, bubbling blood filling up his gullet until he was ready to explode.

Constance had been bringing him food like he was the secret pup in the barn and after dinner she'd come and feed him scraps from her plate. He was being pathetic, he was pathetic—but he didn't know how not to be pathetic and not sink his fangs into every human's throat so he made the conscious decision not to go out and come across any of the hapless creatures.

He occupied his time during the night to repair the house. Back when he was human and his life had everything to look forward to, his parents in accompany, he'd helped build a new barn for the farm with his father by hand. They'd made their own lumber from trees from their own property. d'Artagnan used the tall pines from out behind the house in the forest. His vampire strength accounted for more than two men and he finished the job in no time.

And now he had nothing to distract himself with. He was left with his own thoughts like he was that night in the garrison cell—and all the decisions after that lead him to where he was now.

Thankfully, Constance arrived soon after, saving him from himself. He was ready to run his head through a wall just for something to do and distract himself.

"Good morning, d'Artagnan." Constance told him with a blue sparkle in her eyes.

d'Artagnan lit up at the sight of her. Even with her just standing there in the old, rundown house, made it look brighter. Of course, the vampire woman had done some down-and-dirty redecorating those three days he was in transition—for which he was grateful—like taking down and burning all paintings of forget-me-nots.

She set the basket that she had been holding on the side table as she removed her cloak. Though she did not feel the cool of the night, it was a habit that was never thrown away, like many things. d'Artagnan's eyes were dragged from the beautiful vampire and to the cloth-covered basket, his gaze lasering beneath it to the lovely jars of blood that she had brought him.

He looked at it with red eyes, his body tense. He fought the want to snatch the jars from her.

Constance saw the look in his eyes. "The hunger will abate, d'Artagnan." She removed the cover and picked up a single jar, the red contents sloshing inside, so appetizing to the baby vampire.

His extended fangs gnawed on his lip, but he forced his eyes to her face even as the scent prevailed him. "Even after I just finish feeding, I know it's only a matter of time..."

She held out the jar and he reacted instantly, flitting in front of her before the blink of a human eye. She raised a single brow at him and he turned sheepish.

"Sorry." He took the jar from her, slow this time and twisted off the lid. He lifted the rim to his lips and tipped it back, his eyes slipping closed. It was cold. It wasn't fresh. The jar contaminated the taste. He loved every drop of it. He was like a starving animal at a mud puddle—he didn't care, it was all he knew.

Constance watched him carefully as he drank, waiting for the precise moment to give the Gascon the kick in the rear that he needed. She waited exactly on his last mouthful... "Athos, Porthos, and Aramis will be here shortly." She informed him.

He did a spit take at her news, splattering the dusty floor. There was nothing delicate about it. He made a desperate sound at the back of his throat as he watched the old wood soak up the spat blood like a dry wasteland sucking up a single morsel of water like a sponge; but he refused to humiliate himself in an attempt to salvage the last dregs.

He jerked to her as her news completely struck him from his blood-high. "What?" he exclaimed, eyes widening in horror. "I'm not ready!"

Constance gave a soft sigh, but didn't roll her eyes. "It's been over a month, d'Artagnan. You can't hide away forever. We've been speaking, they want to talk with you."

He shook his head rapidly. "Why would they even want to see me, after all the trouble I've caused? They haven't come before, why now?"

Constance took the jar from his white-knuckled grip before he could shatter it and set it back with its full brethren. She took the Gascon's trembling hand and guided him to sit on the salvaged, broken chaise lounge that Athos had crashed through.

"They've had a lot to think through after that night, and I told them that you needed time to adjust." She said from next to him, still holding his hand.

She didn't feel cold to him, like Milady had when he was human. She felt warm (while she'd told him) that human's ran hot. He liked the feel of her hand entwined in his own, delicate, yet with such strength—a strength that had saved them all that night.

"I know what it's like to be forced into this life. But you can't hide from it any longer. You can't hid from yourself, it's impossible."

"It's not anything that I expected." He admitted.

"Life never is, d'Artagnan." She cupped his cheek gently.

He leaned into the touch. "Why do you even bother with me?" he whispered, his eyes closed.

"Dummy." She flicked his forehead and he blinked at her in surprise. "It's called love."

He looked back at her in shock, but her gaze was steady and unwavering. Everything in him suddenly softened and relented. He gently cupped her pale cheek, the rough pad of his thumb brushing the flesh softly. "From the moment I first saw you…" he breathed.

Their attention was averted by the sound of hoof beats approaching, and d'Artagnan was tense all over again as they stood.

"They're here," she said needlessly, turning to look at him, "Are you ready?"

His lips were pressed tightly as he shook his head. She could see his extended fangs biting into his lips. Who knew three men could smell so good? Constance gripped his hand as they mounted the porch.

"You _are_ ," she told him. "Control the urge, resist. Because that's all it is—an **urge** , d'Artagnan. You've just feed, you _aren't_ hungry."

He tried to focus on her words, but the were overridden by the sounds of the Musketeers' heartbeats. He could actually hear it and it made him excited—it made him bloodthirsty.

The flow of their blood beneath their flesh was like music to the new vampire's ears. They hardly stepped foot into the house before d'Artagnan snarled, his lips curled to reveal his fangs, his irises red as he lunged—Constance had told the Inseparables that this might happen; they were ready for it, but it was still a shock; she told them not to do anything, that she would take care of it—So Constance grabbed him, ripping him back and slammed him against the wall with enough force to leave an inward splinter.

d'Artagnan pulled himself from the wall, shaking his head lightly as if waking from a daze. His fangs retracted and his eyes faded to brown. He looked at them, aghast. "I am so sorry!" he gasped. "You're the first humans I've been around since I turned and I—"

"You can't isolate yourself," Athos reprimanded him and d'Artagnan blinked at him in surprise, that was not the reaction he was expecting.

"What?"

"Constance has been keeping us informed of your progress as a vampire, d'Artagnan. You've hardly set foot from the house, you've been drinking from jars of blood," he gestured to the basket beside Aramis. "You've had no contact with human's and have no control over yourself. You haven't been adapting to you new body, your new life. And I have to say, after the bravery and strength you showed—this was not what I was expecting from you."

"I—" he didn't know how to respond, because it was all true. He was acting the child and ashamed of it.

Athos continued after a moment, "We've been talking with Constance and Captain Treville for a bit now—"

"Deciding my fait." d'Artagnan knew, he'd been waiting for this moment. "Whether you were going to let me live... or kill me." Perhaps that was part of his anxiety, why he was having such a hard time adjusting, because was there even a point to accepting himself as a vampire if he was just going to die anyways? And he knew that if they decided that that was what they were going to do, he wasn't going to fight them.

"Yes." Athos seemed to be the one elected to do all the talking.

"And?" he wasn't sure what answer he wanted to hear and that would say a lot about his state of mind.

Athos glanced to his two brothers, and they both nodded their agreement. He looked back to d'Artagnan. "We would like you to join the Musketeers. On a trial basis, mind you. But we want to start training you."

It took the vampire a moment to process the words. This was clearly not what he was expecting. "But you don't... have vampires in the Musketeers." d'Artagnan mumbled finally, confused and in shock. That was one of the things that gave them such a reputation.

"You'd be the first." Aramis spoke for the first time. "But it's something we're willing to try, if you are willing as well."

d'Artagnan stared at them open-mouth before shaking his head. "But why me? Why... why not someone who has more control, who deserves it? Your trust?" Aramis narrowed his eyes. "You should just kill me—" he shook his head, shrinking in on himself.

Aramis had his pistol out and fired even before Constance could react. The wooden silver-tipped bullet buried itself in the young vampire's stomach.

"Aramis!" Athos and Porthos shouted in surprise.

d'Artagnan cut off his own cry of pain as he dropped to his knees, his arms wrapped around his blood-soaked middle. This was an old pain, an almost familiar one—Milady's hands stabbing inside of him—but this was much worse. It felt like hot iron was pushed into his flesh.

"d'Artagnan!" Constance cried in alarm, but in a flash she was at Aramis, knocking the pistol from his hand and pinning him against the wall with a single hand around his throat; her blue eyes red and fangs extended in her outrage. "Why did you do that?"

Aramis didn't fight her and Porthos and Athos made no attempt to removed her, (the only way they could succeed was if they staked her). He was lucky she hadn't just snapped his neck there and then without asking the important question for her protectiveness of the newly turned Gascon, but she was sharper than that.

"If he wants to die, I will grant him the favour. But it has to be a true want, and not a coward's hiding place." Aramis told her, his firm voice made only slightly strained by her ministrations.

Constance's fangs retracted and her red irises slowly faded back to blue as she searched his brown eyes. There was no true ill-intent towards the Gascon, not even after finding out that he was responsible for the attempt on his life in the alley, and then the whole "Charles" ordeal. No, this was a genuine intent, if a harsh one.

Her gentle prodding and imploring of the Gascon vampire hadn't been truly working, perhaps this was the firm boot in the rear that would drive him back into the world—for this truly was his hiding place. She slowly lowered the Spaniard to the floor after finding what she needed. She didn't apologize as she stepped back and turned from Aramis, she went passed Porthos and Athos who turned to Aramis, and knelt beside d'Artagnan.

"What the 'ell, Aramis?" Porthos grumbled as the other man straightened himself out.

Aramis shrugged. "I was thinking on my feet."

He scoffed. "I 'ardly think thought was involved."

"You're lucky she didn't tear your throat out." Athos had to agree, but there was amusement there.

"Constance is a intelligent woman," Aramis said. "Let's see if he is as well."

d'Artagnan whimpered as she pushed him up straight from his hunched position. She lifted his shirt. The bullet would was giving a slow, but steady flow of blood. It would continue to do so and _not_ heal as long as the bullet was in there. Without waiting permission, she dug her fingers into the wound.

After the initial grunt, he bit back any other sounds, cringing at the feel of her fingers digging inside of him. But as soon as she pulled it out and flicked it into the lit fireplace where it sizzled in the flame, he gasped in relief. It only took a moment more for the wound to heal itself and all that remained of the transgression was the blood and bullet hole in his shirt. He grimaced at its state as Constance rose to her feet and he followed.

He felt awkward as he looked from her to the Inseparables to what must have seemed like silence to the three humans, but was buzzing with noise to the two vampires. The fire crackling and popping, the s=sounds of their hearts and their blood and their breath, every single shift, the crickets outside—all of it. He felt more like a chastised puppy than pissed at being shot and wanting to rip their heads off and drink from the fountain of blood in return.

"I—I don't—" he stopped and straightened. "I would like to become a Musketeer. I know that I've lied and deceived you all and don't deserve this chance that you're giving me—but I promise to give you my life. Whatever that may be worth."

The Inseparables shared another look, another silent conversation that only they knew the subject. d'Artagnan had seen it enough times as 'Charles' to be jealous and know he could never know someone well enough to have that—but maybe that would change.

Athos finally gave their answer. "Come to the garrison in three nights. And we'll take it from there."

D'Artagnan nodded, despite the daunting task of them wanting him to go into a crowded city filled with walking meals. But he wanted this and he would prove to them that their trust was deserved. But there was one thing he was hoping to resolve right now:

"Please don't shoot me again?" d'Artagnan asked (like it was a normal thing). "I know I heal and everything, but it still hurts. A lot." He rubbed his bloodied stomach.

Aramis stared straight back at him. "Not unless you deserve it."

d'Artagnan sighed, but nodded. He supposed it was the least he deserved. They were giving him a third chance, one that he wasn't sure he even deserved. But he would take it as it was offered to him, he would earn their trust no matter how long it took. And all the while not eating them—a feat in itself.

A Musketeer... this was a life that his father would have been proud of.

[end]

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 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Well, that was bloody exhausting to write.** **Please tell me I didn't flub it. I found it tremendously difficult to write d'Artagnan as a vampire, but I extremely wish that it somehow worked in the end.** **I know some of you disliked the idea of d'Artagnan becoming a vampire, or were uncertain on the matter; though in the very beginning that wasn't my intention either, that was just the path seemed to take. I hope you liked it anyway, thanks for reading and for all the fantastic reviews! Each and everyone of them is like a single pearl on a necklace, precious, every single one of them. Yay!**

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